


The Lion and The Bull

by EinahSirro



Series: The Lion and the Bull [1]
Category: The Iliad - Homer, Troy (2004)
Genre: Achilles is Feral, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Bottom Hector, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Family Drama, Hector is Heartbreakingly Adorable, Light Bondage, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Stalking, The Iliad missed a few details, Top Achilles, Unhealthy Relationships, War, this is what really happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-28 10:50:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 51,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20777351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: Achilles has come to the wall of Troy determined to kill Hector. Hector goes out to meet his fate with little hope, but he is determined upon one thing: he will fight to the bitter end. And Achilles has never fought anyone like him before.





	1. After the Temple (Prologue)

“You are very brave or very foolish to come after me alone.” Achilles had said when a horrified but stalwart Hector, his face barely visible behind the metallic mask of his helmet, followed him into the temple of Apollo. Achilles had waited for him calmly in the shadows, hair loose, arms relaxed, barely winded from his bloody and murderous charge up the hill and into the temple. 

"You must be Hector," he added calmly. "Do you know who I am?" He’d waited mostly out of curiosity, wanting to see this Hector, Prince of Troy. He assessed the other man as he crept wide-eyed into the inner sanctum, his gaze falling with a glare of outrage on the dead bodies of the priests. “These priests weren’t armed!”

All Achilles could see was that Hector was quite tall, and well formed, with dark hair falling in a braid down between his shoulder blades. His stance was crouched and defensive. Not terribly graceful. A warrior, yes, and solid, but not born to the blade. His weapon wasn’t an extension of his hand; it was a foreign object grasped for a purpose.

Later, looking back, Achilles could not remember most of their brief exchange. He remembered that Hector had demanded, “Fight me!” And he, Achilles, rather tauntingly had swung out of reach, no doubt a faint, smug smile on his full lips, and moved easily from altar to bench to door to exit the chamber. What he did remember—much later, in grinding agony—was making the remark, “Why kill you now, Prince of Troy, with no one here to see you fall?”

Now, standing at the funeral pyre of his beloved young companion, the flaming torch in his hand, a thought burned in his head with more heat than the torch in his grasp: If he’d killed Hector then and there, Patroclus would be alive. But he had wanted to kill Hector before an audience. Now he’d get his chance, but the joy of it had already been snatched, in advance, from his hungry throat. Now, no matter what a triumph it was, it was dimmed by the knowledge that no Patroclus would watch, or hear about, the feat with admiring eyes. Achilles stared down at the still, pale face. Already his memory of his young cousin was damaged, and he feared that for the rest of his life, however short it would be, he would remember Patroclus like this. Motionless, with gold coins on his eyes, a white strip of cloth covering the gory slit that had opened his tender young throat.

Achilles bent and lit the fire, and then stepped back, face blank, to watch it consume the pyre, and begin licking at the soft cloth that wrapped the young—far too young—body of the companion he’d trained, counseled, and loved. This was his own doing. At some deep level he knew, he was the one who brought the boy here, knowing full well he was itching to fight, and far too confident for his level of expertise. But he—Achilles—had brought Patroclus to a war, and then left alive the warrior who killed him.

The death of Ajax had been a shock to the Greeks, but not an outrage. He’d lived and died a warrior, and while they honored him in death, they developed a respect for Hector. This respect had not come easily, for they saw him at first merely as the older brother of the little fool who had stolen Menelaus’s wife and then crawled from him in a panic when they dueled.

But this Hector, he fought. He fought with determination and a fair amount of skill. He had technique, but he could improvise. He commanded the Trojan army with wisdom and decision. He showed no temper, and was neither fearful nor braggart. Battle was his duty, and he approached it as such. And then he killed Ajax, a warrior so fearsome that if you speared him through, he’d break the spear off and beat you to death with the jagged end. Until Hector. The death of Ajax raised Hector in their reluctant esteem.

But the death of Patroclus horrified and sickened even the battle-tried warriors who beheld it, not with disgust toward Hector, but with revulsion for… they knew not what, or whom. Was it the gods who had allowed this to happen? And why? To punish the boy for his hubris? To punish the Greeks for their greed? To punish Achilles for not fighting? No one knew, but it wasn’t lost on them that Hector was as stunned as they. At that fatal moment they had all hung suspended, watching helpless as the boy lay gurgling in his own blood, his pale eyes staring up pleadingly. Hector had turned his head this way and that, unseeing, his lips parted in silent protest—was he thinking of his own brother? A youth who blundered into scenes beyond his capabilities, making a mess too thorny for even his own comprehension?

Finally, with the grim determination of a man who knew death and hated suffering, Hector ended the mortal struggle with a single blow. Silence fell, and did not lift even as afternoon darkened into night. It seemed to many of the Greek warriors that the beach remained uncannily quiet even now, hours later, as Achilles stepped away from the fire and watched the smoke rise with an expressionless face, but with glittering, furious eyes. Tomorrow, he vowed silently, he would kill Hector, Prince of Troy.


	2. The Fight Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles has come to kill Hector. Hector has come to die with honor. Honor comes from fighting to the very last.

The last person Hector remembered seeing before he stepped out of the gate to meet his doom was Helen. She stood in the empty street, eyes lowered with sorrow and shame, and Hector gave her a long look. The condemnation in his eyes was not for her; he knew that Menelaus had not treated her as Hector treated his own wife, and he knew that pretty, spoiled Paris had picked her up as a toy. That he had fallen in love with her soon after was… Hector could not wrap up the thought. One thing had led to another and here he was. Deep reflection was something Hector avoided, not because he was not capable, but because he saw no point. His place in the world was not his making: he was the eldest son. He had duties, and wished to fulfill them well. That his duty and honor led him in a straight line to early death was… not what he had hoped for. But the gates were swinging open. Achilles would stand out there roaring his name until all of Troy was a mass of quivering nerves, Hector knew. Better to march out now, play his part… maybe the gods would actually save him. By some miracle. 

Hector had little faith in it, but his father had a great deal, and maybe—Hector hoped the king’s prayers bore fruit, but as he stepped forward, toward the figure that awaited him with the deadly patience of hatred, he felt certain that this was his last day. He would die as he had lived: obedient to his father, in service to his country. And of one thing, Hector was absolutely determined: he would fight with every bit of strength he had to the very last.

Achilles watched the prince come forward, stiff, ceremonial, and with an odd trace of courtliness. His gait was perfectly even, and he moved as if the helmet were merely balanced on his head, and might fall off. The prince moved into position facing the warlord, and halted. “I’ll make a pact with you, with the gods as our witnesses,” Hector called to him. “Let us pledge that the winner will allow the loser all the proper funeral rituals.”

The cold rage inside Achilles did not abate. He was not surprised that his adversary had already accepted death and was ready to negotiate his funeral, but a quick death and a glorious funeral was not enough to soothe his bloodlust. He rejected the offer curtly. “There are no pacts between lions and men.”

Hector did not react but with a slow inhale and a renewed grip on his spear. Bitterly, Achilles swept off his helmet and stared at the man before him, the breeze stirring his sun bleached hair. “Now you know who you’re fighting,” he added mockingly. To his surprise, Hector made the same gesture in reciprocity, removing his helmet and displaying the face that Achilles had not, till this moment, actually seen. 

It was a face perfectly suited to the temperament behind it. The features were even and full, but with a faint cast of worry or longing that seemed stamped on it at youth. A face that rarely smiled, or scowled either. A face that watched, saw, waited, decided, and acted, but always with a hint of sorrow. The eyes were large, black, and direct. The dark curls were loose and soft. Achilles felt a slight tick deep in his chest as he registered his enemy, for the first time, as a man of feeling and thought, and some beauty.

Then he felt his rage still rotating silently inside of him, and not heeding much of what Hector said after, “I wish it had been you,” Achilles issued his blood chilling threat. “You won’t have eyes tonight. You won’t have ears or a tongue. You’ll wander the underworld deaf, blind, and dumb, and all the dead will know: this is Hector. The fool who thought he killed Achilles.”

He waited for a reaction, but it was oddly muted. Hector clearly heard and understood him, and there was no sign he doubted the warrior, or even had hope for victory. There was only awareness and watchfulness, and that shadow of sadness upon him. Achilles grew impatient. It was time to begin. He charged, and Hector snapped into a rigid defensive pose.

After a few experimental passes, Achilles felt he had assessed his target: strong and skillful, but utterly mortal. A man who fought other men, who had no particular style other than to react move by move, admittedly quickly, and with strength, but still. The prince maintained a pattern of two defensive moves to one offense, automatic, predictable, probably the relic of some courtly notion about balance and restraint. 

Achilles, his mind operating with wordless efficiency, entered into his signature move, a sudden twisting leap to a downward neck stab, meant to spear the heart from above, through the shoulder. It was a reliable kill-strike, as no man ever seemed to expect his enemy to go suddenly airborne and attack from the sky. To his surprise, Hector swept up his shield instantly, and blocked the attack. Achilles landed gracefully and danced back into fighting stance, aware now that his enemy had the advantage of an open mind, and was not stupefied by a single stylized move. 

His rage subsided to allow the fighting instinct to rise in its place. He moved into a bold offensive, and watched with interest as Hector successfully blocked each strike of the spear, sometimes with the bare edge of his shield. They danced around each other, and Hector took a wild swing. 

Smoothly, Achilles whipped his shield around and broke his rival’s spear. 

It was at this point (if by some miracle they lasted this long) that most warriors stared in horror at their broken weapon and began to panic, but Hector simply chucked the shaft away sternly and set about breaking Achilles’ spear as well. Which he did with a clever maneuver of his own shield, and a stomp of one long leg. When Hector whipped out his sword in the next move and went on the offensive, Achilles began to warm to the experience. This was actually an enemy worth fighting!

Now they engaged one another fully in the moment, their minds running at top speed, whirling to narrowly avoid a thrusting sword, lunging with shields front to slam them against the other, making them ring metallic tones that vibrated in the morning air. The dust rose around them. Achilles swung and Hector bent back with surprising flexibility to dodge yet another blow. They slashed at each other ardently. Achilles had to duck more than once to avoid a powerful slice from the taller man. At one point, he resorted to his lion’s leap again, but once again, he was blocked. A trace of perturbation touched his thoughts; no one had ever survived his attacks this long. By now they had rotated around each other, and Achilles had his back to the gates of Troy.

At length, Hector charged, swung, and his sword traced a disfiguring line across the front of Achilles’ armor. The Greek glanced down and regarded it with a spike of astonishment. He raised his hot blue eyes to stare into the dark ones that regarded him. Hector was panting, clearly tiring. But his gaze was steady as ever. It registered in Achilles’ mind—somewhere—that Hector did not look at him with hatred. His gaze was fierce, but not hateful. It was the focused stare of a man regarding a threat that must be defended against… but that was all. 

Achilles’ own eyes narrowed menacingly. He was going to see fear in those black eyes, he vowed, and charged again.

They engaged, and Achilles noted another difference in Hector: he wasn’t afraid to get close. More than once he caught a whiff of the spicy heat of his adversary as they whipped their weapons through the air to cut empty space. At one point Hector lunged in so close, Achilles was able to trap his arm in his shield, and lifted it to break the trapped limb. He was able to immobilize the other, but to his frustration, the prince was strong enough to fight the injurious maneuver, if not to free his arm. The Greek brought his sword arm around for a killing strike to the guts, but even trapped as he was, Hector yanked his shield around to block him yet again. 

Irritably, Achilles kicked him free… and then fate intervened. Hector stumbled on a stone and fell to the ground, twisting slightly (though not with agility) to land on his forearms. 

Hector’s shield fell out of his reach, and he crawled forward desperately. Achilles watched gloatingly, sure that he was finally seeing the terror that must be gripping the wheezing, winded Trojan. “Get up, prince of Troy,” he instructed coldly. “I’m not letting a stone take my glory.” Hector crawled forward a few feet more, and it was only then that Achilles realized that it had not been a retreat; he’d been making for the nearest broken spear. 

A flicker of appreciation moved inside him. Still fighting. Good. 

He cast his own shield away and Hector scrambled to his feet and threw himself into battle again, sword in one hand, broken spear in the other, and gave every last bit of his skill and strength to land a blow on the man who faced him.


	3. Lions Sometimes Play With Their Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles is beginning to enjoy the fight. The cat toys with the mouse.

Hector, at this point, had also taken his measure of the other. The Greek was somewhat stronger than he, but not excessively so. However, he was more agile, more graceful, had more control of his movements. This alone did not spell doom to Hector; his own defense was strong, and his offense nearly equal. But it slowly became obvious to him as they fought that he was tiring… and Achilles was not. Hector felt his breath coming rapidly, and with effort, felt the sweat dripping down his neck, felt the beginnings of fatigue in his shoulders. He felt the wildness in his swings, wherein he was depending more on momentum than strength. Achilles seemed unaffected, and moved with the same energy and deliberation that he had begun with, and Hector’s hopes, which had not been strong to begin with, died entirely when, with one fluid and exotic move, Achilles levered the sword from his hand and sent it flying across the sand. He saw the blond smile coldly. Hector stiffened, grasping the broken spear that was his only remaining weapon, and made a silent vow that he would fight until he was dead. 

Achilles now saw his victory coming to fruition. He attacked with the sword, and Hector dodged and ducked as adeptly as he could, but it could not continue forever. He slammed the broken spear against Achilles’ leg, and the Greek bit his lips in surprised pain, but kept up his attack. Hector lunged into his arms, the shaft of his spear against his rival’s throat, and Achilles was briefly reminded of Ajax. That was who Hector most resembled, as a fighter, Achilles decided, but he lacked the psychotic rage that had fueled that warrior. Hector was simply refusing to die, but even as he shoved Achilles away from him, and ducked to avoid the swipe that he couldn’t see but instinctively expected, his eyes still registered no hatred and little fear. 

Achilles assessed the other man’s face briefly. He was pale and panting heavily, his hair lank with sweat now, framing eyes that watered and blinked in exhaustion. The only expression on his face Achilles could identify was a continued commitment to fight. Very well.

At this point, Achilles began to toy with his prey, like a lion who feels that the edge of his hunger has been blunted, and now he might enjoy a bit of sadistic entertainment. He slashed at Hector and allowed the other man to block several swipes with the broken spear. But it was clear to them both that Hector had no hope. He might die on his feet, but he was simply unwilling to go to his knees, and if Achilles wanted to see him in that defeated pose, clearly Achilles would have to maim or exhaust him till he fell. 

The killer increased his overhead swings, forcing Hector to lift his fatigued arms high to block him again and again. Now the prince was unsteady on his feet, wavering and occasionally stumbling. His breath came in loud gasps. Even the onlookers from the top of the wall could see the ease with which Achilles still strolled around his victim, poking and prodding with his sword and Hector continued, though with increasingly uncoordinated movements, to block him.

Finally, Achilles had his fill. Time to end it. The prince had fought valiantly, he had to admit. But enough of this. With an upward stroke, he sliced through the broken shaft of the spear and both ends flew from Hector’s hands. With his empty hand, Achilles punched other man in the face, and the dark hair flew forward as he fell backward, exhausted, into the sand.

Achilles stepped over him, pointed his sword at his opponent’s heart… and Hector suddenly flung a handful of sand into his eyes, rolled away and staggered once more to his feet. 

The Greek gave a snort of contempt and wiped his eyes—and Hector slammed into him, tackling him, and actually managed to dislodge the sword from his hand. The two men scrambled on the ground for a moment, but Hector’s arms were weakened with effort, and after a few sweaty, struggling embraces, Achilles elbowed himself free, rather offended, and rose over the other, the sword again in his hand.

Lifting the sword for the final strike, Achilles looked down in disbelief. Hector had managed to grasp the rock he had earlier tripped over, and he swung as high as he could with it, slamming it down on Achilles’ muscular thigh. It wasn’t a particularly effective move, as the area was thickly padded, and it caused him little pain. But the fact that Hector was lying in the sand, rock in his hand, gasping for breath and staring up at him in defiance still made him pause. The man was unbroken, and this was… not enough. It was not enough to kill him. He must be broken, Achilles felt. As he stared down in perplexity, Hector gritted his teeth and hit him with the rock again, this time in the knee. That actually hurt, and Achilles took a few steps back, lowering his sword and tipping his head to look at Hector for a long moment.

He found that much of his wild rage was gone, replaced by a more stubborn need: that Hector admit defeat, that he show fear, that he show helpless rage, that he beg for his life. It wasn’t enough to defeat the Trojan prince. The prince must know himself to be defeated, and though Achilles could clearly spear him through the heart easily at any moment, he simply could not find satisfaction in doing it while the stern, fierce glare of resistance still glimmered in those black eyes.

It occurred to Achilles that he could simply start cutting the prince in non-fatal areas. The legs. The hands. Do some bloodletting. Let him see his life spilling out. But it galled him that he’d been unable to inflict such wounds when Hector was armed. On a sudden impulse, Achilles threw his sword aside, and pounced on Hector, determined to divest him of the rock. _I’ll kill him with my bare hands,_ he told himself, but there was surprisingly little heat behind the thought.

Now the men grappled, wrestling in the sand, and Hector managed to bounce the rock off of Achilles’ head once rather smartly. That was quite enough of that, the Greek decided, and used all his power to twist until he was atop his enemy, rip the rock from the Trojan’s grip, and cast it away from them both. He pinned the other man’s wrist and wrapped his free hand around Hector’s throat. 

That was when he felt the sharp poke in the soft bit of flesh at his waist, and he froze, still on top of Hector. It took him only a split second to realize that Hector had found the small dagger that Achilles had tucked into the belt of the tunic under his armor. He’d forgotten it, but the dark eyes had apparently spotted the handle.

What was puzzling was that Hector wasn’t plunging it into him. He lay panting as if his heart would burst, his dark hair plastered to his face, his lips pulled back in a snarl over white teeth, his eyes as direct and penetrating as ever… and settled for a warning poke in the side? The two men seemed locked in this tableau for a moment. Achilles waited for Hector to stab him. Hector waited for Achilles to release him.

It finally dawned on the warrior: the prince had no real desire to kill him.


	4. The Lion is Puzzled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector is not someone Achilles can easily understand. Soon, Achilles becomes someone Achilles can not easily understand.

Achilles stared uncomprehendingly down at the man beneath him, feeling his heat, smelling his scent, watching his chest heave in exhausted gasps, and realizing, finally, that this man had confounded him. Hector had fought with admirable ferocity, but fueled by what? How could one fight so ardently without the desire to kill? 

Suddenly he thought of Briseis, holding the knife to his throat in his tent in the night. She was Hector’s cousin, yes? He could picture them both in his mind, and see the common thread. There was no lack of courage or commitment, but glory was of no interest to them. They fought exactly enough to repel an attack, and no more.

This was no time to think things over. With a sudden move, Achilles released Hector’s throat and reached down, pinning the hand with the knife. _You lost your one chance,_ he thought as he tossed the knife aside. But Hector continued to struggle, wrapping his legs around the man who pinned him, and somehow he flipped them. Achilles continued the roll, and they grappled in the sand, Hector kicking and even attempting a head-butt. But his fatigue was finally draining him of every last bit of strength, and at last Achilles had him in a headlock, face down, and was squeezing hard, determined to wring every bit of resistance from the stubborn prince.

Then Hector went limp. Achilles released him instantly, a tense scowl on his face. Had he killed him? He didn’t want to kill him like that, he wanted to put a sword through him, leave him with a mortal wound exactly like the one he’d inflicted on Patroclus. But he’d been so intent upon choking the Trojan into submission… Achilles flipped Hector over onto his back, his blue eyes anxiously scanning the other man’s throat and chest. He was breathing.

Achilles sat back on his heels, suddenly intensely dissatisfied. He reached for the knife that lay in the sand and turned with it in his hand. He should cut the enemy’s throat and be done with it. Hector was defeated. _End it,_ he told himself. But he still hesitated, staring down at the long form sprawled out in the golden sand. Never had an adversary fought him like that. _Kill this one, and you’ll never have this experience again._

And he found that it did not please him that Hector’s eyes were closed. He wanted them open, he wanted them staring up at him. Acting on an impulse he had never before experienced and could not even begin to explain, Achilles took the knife in his hand, leaned over the unconscious prince, lifted the dark head roughly, and sawed off the braid that fell down his back. Then, letting Hector’s head drop back into the yielding sand, he stuck the knife in his belt and rose to his feet, the soft trophy clutched in one angry grip. He swept up his sword and shield as he passed them and strode to his chariot, still scowling in discontent. There was something he wanted, and he didn’t know what it was, but whatever it was, he sensed that in order to discover it, Hector must remain alive for now.

Achilles sent a dark look up at the distant figures staring down from behind their high wall. He glanced back at the prince, lying in the sand with the sun beating down on him. He looked dead. Well, they soon would discover, once they were certain that the Greek was safely away, and they ventured out to collect the body, that their prince was very much alive. Broodingly, he mounted the chariot and flicked the reins. This was not over. The prince was going to look into his eyes again, and soon, and then Achilles would conquer him, and he would know himself to be conquered. 

The Trojans watched the golden figure disappear over the sand dunes that dipped down to the sea. Then the four guards who had waited anxiously at the gate sprinted forward to claim their fallen leader.

Hector opened his eyes to blinding sun and sky. He barely had the energy to roll his head this way and that, looking for his tormentor, but all he saw, approaching quickly, were the astonished soldiers who fell to their knees at his side and gaped with joy to see him lift his head, panting, to gaze around in stupefaction.

“Water,” he finally gasped, and they lifted him, and gave him water, and helped him into the shade of the gate. When he’d recovered enough to assess himself and the situation, he directed the guards to get him back inside the city and bolt that gate. For no moment did Hector believe that Achilles was satisfied with a handful of braided hair. They must prepare for a siege.


	5. Strange Machinations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles is doing things that no one understands. Including Achilles.

Achilles sat on his bed, the braid in his hands. Three days had passed. Briseis was a silent, uneasy presence in his hut, watching him with accusing eyes. She’d let out a moan of horror when he’d first returned, clutching his trophy, and he let her weep for a moment before grudgingly confessing, “Hector lives.” 

She stared up at him in disbelief, her face streaked with tears. 

“For now!” He added waspishly, and spent most of the next three days prowling around the hut, a churning in his stomach he could not explain. He was restless. Her presence no longer relaxed or distracted him, and he found himself with no further desire for her, but he did seem to find some pleasure in letting her tell him stories of Hector. He told himself that he was merely gathering more information on his enemy. He studied her face, noting the family resemblance, the dark eyes, the shape of the chin.

“He has always been a good man,” Briseis told him, her tone pleading. She hoped, apparently, to awaken some empathy or respect in his breast for the prince. She wouldn’t beg for her own safety, but she would beg for Hector’s, he noted.

He gave her a quelling glance. “A good man,” he scoffed, provokingly, and looked away.

“All his life, he was the one who took responsibilities, who did his duty. He married where he was told, and made a love match of it—she didn’t even want to—but he was kind to her, he— he’s kind to everyone!” Briseis insisted.

Achilles glanced at her again, thinking that whatever talents the family possessed, the gift of persuasion had only been bestowed upon the younger brother, who apparently spent it on other men’s wives. 

“He is loved!" She continued desperately. "He thinks of everyone except himself, and we love him for it!” 

“I am certain,” he said drily. “And he’ll find that if he ever stops pleasing everyone, they’ll stop loving him.” He added with a faint smirk. 

“No,” she insisted. “His men fight for him because they respect him. When he is king, they’ll fight for him even more ardently.”

Achilles gave an impatient wave. “Men don’t fight for their kings out of love.”

“Why do you fight for your king, then?” She finally snapped, as edgy as he.

Achilles gave her a stony look. “He’s not my king.”

Now it was late in the evening, and while she lay sleeping in his bed, he sat on the edge of it with the braid in his hand. Eventually, with a quick glance to see that she was truly asleep, Achilles lifted the braid to his nose and inhaled. Yes, much the same fragrance as his cousin’s: perfumed and elegant. Achilles sneered slightly down on it. Even during peace, he lived like a warrior, shunning most luxuries, training daily, running along the beach and bathing in the sea. Other than the oils his mother had taught him to rub into his skin, to keep it supple and resilient, Achilles lived like a soldier.

He lifted the hair to his face again, and thought of when he’d had the prince pinned in the sand, staring up at him defiantly. He could picture it clearly. But the Trojan was only a mortal. He could be killed. By anyone.

A sudden notion shocked him with the imperative force of a sacred command: _Hector must not die._

His legs lifted him and stiffened almost of their own accord. Achilles stood, face as blank as a statue. Quickly he put on his armor, strapped on his sword, and went to the tent of Agamemnon.

*****

Hector was in his chambers with his wife and child when the lookout came galloping toward the city walls, several days later. 

“Open the gates! Open the gates!”

Gasping in excitement, the spy made the announcement as soon as he was allowed into the presence of King Priam, who waited at the end of the reflecting pool, the giant statue of Apollo at his back.

“They’re leaving! The Greeks are leaving!” the spy announced excitedly.

The council was convened quickly, and Hector emerged from his quarters with alert concern on his face to take his station at his father’s right side and hear the report. Paris was already seated to the king’s left, his young face alight with hope. They and the Trojan advisors and generals listened with mixed reactions to the guard’s report.

“They say there was dissension in the ranks, that the Myrmidons didn’t want to fight under Agamemnon any longer. They say he claimed he’d bring down our walls even if it cost him 40,000 Greeks, and then Odysseus said that fighting for him was just as expensive as fighting against him, and—“ the guard hesitated, as if not even he believed the report he was making. “They also say… they say Achilles… they say Achilles drew his sword on Agamemnon and told him that if he didn’t leave, he’d kill the king himself, and his second in command would have one hour to break camp or he’d find out who the third in line was! He said he’d chop off heads till the beach was clear!”

King Priam listened hopefully. Archeptolemus, the skinny old priest, stood immediately to say portentously, “Apollo has repelled them. He is displeased with their hubris. He has cursed the Greeks!”

Hector did his best not to roll his eyes. Greeks rarely retreated. There was every chance they were merely making a strategic withdrawal, relocating for some cunning reasons… he could not credit it that they would simply leave. But he held his peace. He was only today able to move without pain. His battle with Achilles had left him aching in places he had never been aware of before, and he’d spent two days hobbling around like an ancient. He lay in bed at night, his arms wrapped rather absently around his wife, and wondered… why hadn’t Achilles killed him? Why take his hair?? 

Even at this moment, sitting at council, he had to resist the urge to reach up behind him (now that he could finally lift his arms again) and finger the hair that now curled up at his nape, like Paris. It was a very strange move, not one that they had heard was common in the Greeks. But there was no doubt in his mind now that Achilles was a law unto himself.

Drawing in his breath, Hector reapplied himself to the discussion taking place in the hall as the various elders, priests, and generals put in their tidbits of knowledge, their opinions and interpretations. The babble of remarks swirled around him.

“The Myrmidons left first. They were ready to sail even before that last battle.” 

“They say Agamemnon and Achilles have always hated each other!”

“Odysseus is the only one among them with any common sense… if he breaks away, others will too.”

“I made an offering to Athena that she would call her men home. Perhaps she listened!”

“I don’t blame him. His own lands go unprotected while he fights Agamemnon’s battles for him.”

Finally Hector spoke, and the others fell silent. “We cannot discover the truth speaking among ourselves. We must wait. Our walls are strong, and our supplies are plenteous. We have no need to understand immediately. I say we wait until it’s clear the beach is abandoned, and send out scouts to see if the coast in either direction has not become their new home.”

But of course, Archeptolemus must thrust himself forward. “We must go to the temple of Apollo and begin righting it immediately. We must cleanse it and the beach, and make a sacrifice of thanks to the gods!”

Old King Priam looked attentively at his priest, and Hector knew he was likely to agree.

Hector leaned forward to catch his father’s eye, “There is no reason right now to open those gates,” he stated firmly.

Suddenly, the Captain of the Gate Battalion was entering the hall with unaccustomed haste. “My Lord,” he called. All attention turned to him, and the room fell silent. He bowed quickly. “My Lord, there is a chariot at the gate requesting entrance. It’s…” Suddenly something seemed to occur to the man and he paused awkwardly. 

“Speak,” King Priam ordered him.

“It’s… a priestess of Apollo, My Lord, and she is a member of the royal family,” the Captain said. But it was clear from his tone that there was more to the message that he hesitated to deliver.

“Briseis?” Paris gasped, rising from his seat excitedly.

“Driving a chariot?” Hector added skeptically.

The Captain gave him a telling look, as if he were the only one in the room capable of understanding the awkward and baffling nature of the knowledge that was about to descend upon them. An explosion of indefinable emotion burst within Hector’s gut and he knew instantly, somehow … he knew with certainty... who was driving that chariot. 

Hector shot from his seat and wove through the gathering of men to the Captain’s side. They put their heads together confidentially. “Is it Achilles?”

The Captain nodded, and they both fell silent in consternation.


	6. They Meet Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles has made an unprecedented move, and Hector is absolutely certain that they will all be sorry for it.

“We have to let her in,” Paris insisted, as they peered over the ramparts to stare down at the distant couple waiting before the entrance. It was late afternoon, and they stood ceremoniously in the chariot in the shade of the wall, facing the gate. The robes of Apollo were visible, though clearly not as pristine a white as they had once been. At her side, in full armor, with helmet, Hector recognized his nemesis.

“If we let her in, we let him in.” Hector pointed out the obvious.

“He is alone,” King Priam mused gently, gazing down at the gate. “He is only one man.”

Hector merely looked at him, dark eyes full of emotion. He knew they had to let the pair in. But he was torn, for he felt certain it was a trap of some sort, though it had all the earmarks of a diplomatic envoy. A general personally returning a captive member of the royal family, apparently unharmed? Might even be the first step toward a truce. Had it been Odysseus, Hector would not have hesitated. That was a man who understood tact, diplomacy, politics, court manners, gentility… Achilles was feral. And they were probably offending him with the delay.

Finally, with a glance from Hector’s warning gaze to Paris’s pleading one, King Priam gave the order to let them in and provide a heavily armed escort to bring them to the palace. Paris went happily in his court dress to wait in the center court among the palms and receive them. Hector went uneasily to his quarters, feeling as though he needed to be in armor himself. Andromache hovered nervously, watching him prepare with large, tragic eyes.

“Why is he here??” She whispered, and Hector shook his head. He wanted to say that he did not know, but he had a dread in his gut that told him… he believed that he did know. He felt that Achilles was there for him, that their grudge match was not finished. But why had he single-handedly broken up the Greek alliance? Why come alone? It made no sense, and things that made no sense disturbed Hector greatly. His father might brush it off with “the will of the gods,” and Paris might think of it as an interesting and amusing puzzle, but to Hector, when the world did not make sense, it was a sign that he was lacking some crucial information, and would find himself sorry for it soon enough. He finished donning his armor, put the helmet under his arm, and gave her a long look. 

“Don’t let him see you,” he finally said. He wasn’t even sure why he said it; it just seemed to him that Achilles and Andromache were two creatures that need never meet.

****

The royal family stood in wait, poised ceremoniously at the top of the steps leading up between the massive columns of the palace court. Guards flanked them on all sides. The streets were lined with fascinated Trojans, torn between cheering the return of Briseis, and shrinking back in trepidation at the golden figure beside her, in full armor. 

Achilles’ steely gaze did not waver. He drove the chariot slowly through the streets with the Trojan guards on either side, and Briseis clinging eagerly to his arm. When they dismounted and he looked up to the top of the steps, he noted the old king and his foppish younger son in their royal blue. And to the side, he saw once again the tall figure, in his armor, including helmet, watching him uneasily.

Achilles was pleased. It felt right that Hector meet him in his armor, although he had made no conscious plan to fight him at this point. In fact, being the figure of action that he was, it was common to find himself embarking upon a course that his body seemed to have completely planned while his mind rode along in contented silence. Thus it was now. From the moment that the lightning bolt had hit him, the first conscious awareness that _Hector must not die,_ followed by the awareness that he must be in Hector’s presence again, now, right now, and those eyes must be looking at him… Achilles had acted as if he were indeed controlled by a god.

He routed Agamemnon, and would never forget the affronted rage in the arrogant king’s face above the point of Achilles’ sword, the hatred as he stared down the length of the gleaming blade and into the blue eyes that promised him instant death if those ships didn’t start loading. 

Later he walked with Odysseus along the beach, pointing out very reasonably that he had no more to lose in resisting Agamemnon than in allowing the man to decimate the ranks of Ithaca as an ally. And as for the Hittites, if they were going to attack, they may as well do it now, with the entire Greek army away at Troy, and their cities unguarded. 

A few days later, he stood with Briseis at his side, and she looked confusedly from him to the ships that were pulling away from the beach, until soon they were alone but for the litter of abandoned camps, and a swarm of crows that happily picked among the ruins, cawing raucously.

Finally he turned and looked down at her. “Are you ready to return to Troy?” He asked cryptically, and then led her to the chariot. Now he stood at the bottom of the steps and allowed Briseis to climb them first, alone, and be embraced by her uncle and cousin. Hector still held himself aloof, and Achilles kept his face turned up toward Priam. 

When the first flush of reunion abated, the king looked down at the warrior who gazed intently up at him. The old eyes were watchful, but in true courtly fashion, the king opened his arms invitingly. 

“Brave Achilles, Troy owes you a debt of gratitude,” he began slowly, and then hesitated, obviously unsure what the warrior had in mind with this course of action. Was it a truce? Was it a trade? Was it a mutiny against his own?

Achilles mounted the steps, aware of every guard around him seizing up in silent fear as he drew closer and closer to the unarmed old king who awaited him. When he got to the top of the steps he removed his helmet, and faced Priam. The king searched the warrior’s face, noting his rather surprising youth and fine looks, the blond hair, the smooth skin…. Only his eyes gave him away as a remorseless killer, and those eyes were fastened on Priam. 

“We welcome you…?” the king offered, awaiting some sort of explanation, but Achilles was unaccustomed to explaining himself, and merely stared back calmly. Priam looked past him to the chariot to see if he had brought any belongings, but other than one bundle, small enough that even a woman could carry it, Achilles had brought nothing but the armor he wore and the weapons he carried. 

Priam waited to see if there was a message that the Greek would deliver, but Achilles was still silent. His blue eyes went from Priam, to Paris, and settled on Briseis. 

Ah. Now Priam decided that perhaps he understood. Love. Of course. Perhaps the gods had made Achilles fall in love with Briseis. Perhaps Apollo’s revenge was to make him adore a servant of Apollo himself! The idea suited Priam’s romantic, mystical old soul. As the uncomfortable moment drew out, and it became apparent that Achilles had no ultimatum to deliver, no message to carry or request to make, Priam decided to take each moment as it came.

“Will you dine with us? It would be our honor.” He said with royal grace.

Achilles bowed slightly, a satisfied curve to his full lips. “The honor is mine,” he replied automatically, and Hector, hovering nearby, was at least slightly relieved to see the unpredictable man respond in a recognizably politic way. Then his relief fled as Achilles turned and approached him directly, drew fairly near, though not threateningly so, and waited, staring expectantly into his eyes.

Reluctantly, Hector removed his helmet and the two faced each other, just as they had a week ago, outside the walls of Troy. It seemed as if everything went still around them, and even the breeze died away. Hector’s anxious eyes surveyed the blandly composed face of the warrior, trying to read it. _Why are you here? Why are you here??_ Hector had no faith that it had aught to do with his pretty cousin. The intensity with which Achilles regarded him was unnerving. He seemed to be waiting for something.

“We thank you for returning our cousin,” he began, and then his stomach sank. He had killed Achilles’ cousin, and in return, Achilles brought his own back unharmed. It seemed wildly out of character that such a ruthless killer should be raining down so much mercy on the royal family of Troy.

Finally, Achilles spoke, in a voice so low and soft, that only Hector could hear it. “You have much to thank me for,” he said meaningfully, and his eyes were not friendly. Hector found himself breathing through his mouth, as if his nostrils would not let in enough air for this moment.

Achilles waited to see fear and realization in the prince’s large, dark eyes, but saw only caution and concern, still. With a long last look at Hector, he then turned back to the king, who stepped carefully back to lead them all into the palace.


	7. The Lion's Den is Wherever He Makes It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles is inside the gates of Troy, and only Hector seems to understand the danger.

The following twenty-four hours were a study in moments for Hector. He felt as though he was not breathing correctly most of the time. Achilles dined with them and it was impossible to avoid him meeting the women, and interacting with all of the family. He was given guest quarters to freshen up in, and appeared for dinner in clean, simple clothing, but with his dagger still tucked in his belt. 

Hector met him as he entered the hall, and their eyes locked. It seemed to Hector now that every time they met, they were compelled to stare each other down, and his protective instincts toward his family and his kingdom were baited to their highest pitch. Yet he still found that he did not hate Achilles. It was as though a lion had prowled into the palace, and he was too struck by awe at its power and grace to do anything more than watch it carefully and hope it wasn’t hungry. And it didn’t seem to be hungry. Except when it looked at him.

“It is not our tradition to bring weapons to dinner,” Hector told him quietly, as Achilles paused and faced him. Sometimes it seemed that the warrior didn’t even need to breathe. 

Then Achilles lifted his eyebrows mockingly, slid the knife from his belt, and handed it to Hector. “I know from experience that I can trust you with it,” he quipped lightly, and moved away with a little smile. 

Hector stared after him, his stomach doing strange things. He glanced around for a moment and finally hid the knife in a potted plant, and went to his place at the table. King Priam was introducing Achilles to Helen. 

Helen eyed him cautiously, and seemed relieved when he met her with disinterested courtesy. It was unusual for a man to lack reaction to her beauty, or forbear uttering flattering remarks, but Achilles did not have a reputation for charm, just warfare. Given that he had apparently been… host… to Briseis for some weeks before returning with her, and allowing his men to leave without him, Helen was prepared to believe that his actions were those of a man in love. They certainly had the sudden unwavering decisiveness she associated with that motivation. Observing his interactions with the former priestess (who, tellingly, wore the blue family robes now, rather than her virginal white) it seemed to Helen that they were indeed familiar. Briseis held Achilles in a position of trust and esteem, and he treated her with affection… but she didn’t see the sort of passion that would act as spur to such drastic developments. It puzzled her.

King Priam paused to speak to Hector quietly on his way to his seat at the head of the table. “You must present Andromache to Achilles. If we are to play host, let him be treated with courtesy and respect. He will make a far better ally than enemy.” 

Hector gave his father the look he was often forced to give, the look that said _I disagree so utterly, but you are my father and my king._ Taking for granted that he would be obeyed (because Hector, unlike Paris, always obeyed) Priam continued to his seat. Hector drew the quivering Andromache toward Achilles and felt as though he were leading a delicate roe to meet the lion.

“My wife Andromache,” he said briefly, and turned to her, “The warrior Achilles.” 

She stared at the blond man with large, shadowed eyes. All she saw was the man who had held her husband’s life in his calloused hands, twice now. Hector had described to her Achilles’ contemptuous dismissal in the temple of Apollo, and she’d watched with her own eyes, from the city walls, as he tormented Hector into exhaustion before hacking off his beautiful hair and stalking away with it. He was a monster to Andromache, and it was her firm belief that he was not finished with Hector.

Achilles stared back at her inscrutably, noting her fragility and her fear. The moment wore on. The two of them clearly had nothing to say to one another. Finally Achilles gave her a polite bow of the head, and she lowered her eyes and turned away. Hector went with her, feeling her entire body trembling as he wrapped his hands protectively about her shoulders. 

Achilles watched them go, noting the tenderness and care with which Hector handled his wife, and remembering Briseis’ words, that he was kind to everyone, protected everyone, thought of everyone except himself. When Andromache was seated, Hector hovered briefly behind her chair, and then he looked back at Achilles with searching, troubled eyes. Achilles stared back, like a golden statue of an unknowable god.

Helen turned from Paris and glanced over to see this moment, that Andromache was introduced, that she shrank away as soon as she could. Helen watched the look the two men exchanged and a certainty began to grow inside of her. Whatever motivated Achilles was to do with Hector, not Briseis. He stared at Hector as if… Helen gave a small gasp of realization. She knew that look. She’d received it many times. Her eyes turned toward Hector to see if he knew, if he understood. She saw his worry, his uncertainty… no. No. He had no idea. 

Helen sank into her own seat, her mind awash with her awareness. She had no idea what, if anything, she should do with her budding theory.

The meal was uneventful, or at least would have been to any casual observer. Hector found himself watching Achilles constantly as discreetly as he could. Observing his relaxed bearing, knowing his brutal reputation, it was easy to forget he was nobility. He most often seemed like the son of a high ranking general, trained from birth to kill and not to question his place. But at the court of Troy, in the presence of the king, he moved easily and gracefully, his mannerisms and actions modified by the expected social customs and rituals. 

If an occasional elbow on the table or impatient turn of the head revealed that he had spent more of his life ripping meat from the bone with his teeth at a campfire, it was only a passing moment. Hector paused to consider what must have been his position as a young man: son of a king, and—legend had it—a goddess. With the Greeks, of course, it was difficult to tell what they meant sometimes by gods and goddesses. Most likely his mother was royalty from some exotic clime in the far north, the cold countries. It would explain the yellow hair.

Hector became aware that the table was silent and looked up from his plate. His father had apparently addressed him and awaited an answer, but he had been so lost in his thoughts… and it was disrespectful for a son to ask his father to repeat himself. He blinked in distress. The table awaited. 

Finally, Paris said, “I think we should begin tomorrow. It is not too soon to let people return to their normal lives, and righting the Temple of Apollo would send a signal to all of Troy that the war is over.”

That was enough for Hector climb aboard the conversation, and he sent Paris a grateful look, which his younger brother received with a knowing smirk. “I would rather you let me scout the coast for some days before beginning,” he admitted quietly. 

Achilles watched intently, wine chalice in his hand, elbow propped improperly on the table. He was rather wondering that Priam and Paris would speak of their thoughts and plans so openly before him, the man who had desecrated aforementioned temple, who had killed so many of their soldiers, who was their sworn enemy that very morning. Then he looked over at Briseis, remembering how soon she had capitulated to his wooing. He decided that Hector was probably the wisest member of his family, and for some odd reason, the knowledge… pleased him somehow. He decided it had to do with enjoying a worthy opponent. Not only a skilled fighter, but a wise leader. Truly—suddenly, King Priam addressed him.

“What would you do, Achilles, if you were King of Troy?” Priam asked in his ponderous, yet pleasingly deep voice.

Achilles regarded him, surprised by the question. Then his gaze drifted over to Hector of its own accord. He was being honest when he said, “I would be guided by Prince Hector,” but he was unprepared for the strange sensation that filled him once he had said it. It was as if he had suddenly downed a flagon of wine, and the muscles in his shoulders and arms felt oddly weak. He frowned down at his hands, for they seemed to tingle suddenly, just faintly. For the first time in his life he wondered if indeed a god might suddenly take an interest in afflicting him. His appetite disappeared and he spent the rest of the meal in silence, but as he had been fairly silent before that moment, no one seemed to notice his withdrawal. Except Helen, who was watching him covertly, her eyes becoming more certain by the moment. 

Courteously, Priam nodded toward Achilles. “And so I shall,” he said with finality, pleased with the answer. Certainly, Achilles was courting Briseis, he thought.

For Hector’s part, he was now watching Achilles openly, convinced that there had been a warning in those words, that the Greeks were indeed still nearby. Then Achilles subsided to scowl down at the table… had he not meant to be so forthcoming? Had he revealed something in a moment of weakness? Hector felt certain that he had, and now his mind spun about wildly, trying to think what trick, what plot would involve returning a priestess of the patron god of the city, befriending the family, and then… what? What would be the next move?

After they had dined, Hector excused himself to consult with the Captains of the Gate and Guard, and the Generals of the standing army under his command. Troy was strong as long as the gate was closed and there was no way into the city. It was imperative that Achilles get nowhere near that gate, because if he decided to open it… Hector had seen the man fight multiple combatants. He’d have to put a hundred soldiers between Achilles and that gate, and even then he was afraid he’d only end up with a hundred dead soldiers and an open gate. But his father had invited the lion in, and now he must find a way to deal with it.

Leaving the Captain’s quarters late in the evening, Hector wandered the courtyard in the dark, among the torches that lit the open spaces and the gardens. The beautiful gardens of Troy, with hanging flowers inspired by the legends of Babylon, were a favorite haunt of Hector’s. He moved quietly through the scented air, enjoying a moment of peace and privacy. Most of his life was spent in a sort of servitude that few people would understand. They saw him as a prince, and assumed he lived a life of indulgence and comfort. But that was Paris. For Hector, being a prince meant training for war, learning to lead, concerning himself with supplies, maintaining allies, watching over the people, and most of all, supporting his father. His father was a good king, in so many ways. _If only he didn’t have such a trust in the priests,_ he thought. 

Hector sank down onto a bench for a moment… and almost immediately there was a whisper of movement behind him. Before he could properly react, a strong, warm, smooth arm was wrapped around his own arms, pinning them down, and the sharp point of a knife was pressed to his throat. He felt long, straight hair move against his cheek and a scent he recognized, and associated with power and danger. Achilles was behind him, holding him tightly, knife against his throat. 

A very quiet, low voice spoke directly into his ear, raising his hackles, and the hairs on his arms. He dared not move, only listened, as the voice said, “You dropped my favorite knife into the dirt.”

_I knew he was here to kill me,_ Hector thought despairingly. He said nothing, however, and after a moment, the knife withdrew, as did the arm, and he turned to see the man smirking down at him. 

“That’s three,” Achilles whispered, the smirk growing into a true smile, showing those white teeth. 

Then he strolled away, leaving Hector shaken. Gods, that man was mad! Mad as a dog, and inside the gates. Hector remained on the bench, trying to calm himself. What was Achilles doing prowling around the grounds at night? Other than terrorizing Hector?

Then he remembered the tunnel… it did not take a genius to understand that there were probably secret ways into the city. Was Achilles there to find them? Hector was awash with horror, imagining Greek soldiers quietly filing into the city at night. The opening to the tunnel was in a far corner of the royal compound, in an unassuming area where broken barrels and gardening tools tended to accumulate. He couldn’t post guards on it; that would be tantamount to hanging a sign. 

Hector inhaled suddenly, as if he’d forgotten to breathe for several minutes previously. He had to convince his father to find a way to tactfully, politely, get Achilles out of the city. Hector waited until he was sure his heartbeat was normal and the garden was empty, although he was now aware that in addition to his other lethal qualities, Achilles could move very, very silently. As if Hector needed another reason to be uneasy.


	8. "What Does He Want??"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clearly Achilles has a reason for being in Troy. But what is it?

In the early morning hours, Hector sought out the Captain of the Guards once again to arrange for scouts to inspect the beach, and up and down the coast. They sent several out to ride for six hours each way, and then return and report. Afterward, Hector retreated to his quarters, knowing that by now his wife and child would be awake. 

In his rooms, Andromache cradled their son, and seemed only at ease when gazing down at him. When she looked up at Hector, the worry returned, and they exchanged an equally anxious look.

“How long do you think he will stay?” She asked.

Hector sat down beside her, admiring his son. He shook his head. “There is something he wants,” he asserted.

“It isn’t Briseis,” Andromache stated, her eyes searching her husband’s face.

“No,” he agreed.

“It’s you,” she said miserably. “He’s not content with defeating you in battle, he wants… I don’t know what he wants, but I know it’s you, and I know that what he wants, whatever it is, will destroy me. I saw it in his eyes last night. He looked at me like… like one looks at ruins.”

Hector wrapped his arms around her. It wasn’t in his nature to offer false assurances. They sat in silence for a moment. Then a tap at the door revealed a servant come to summon Hector to his father’s side. He left Andromache with a loving look, and… he would have sighed, but Hector never allowed himself that outward sign of impatience or despair. That would only make others uneasy. A prince must always be patient, attentive, and prepared.

Priam waited for Hector in the hall of the statues of the gods, and gestured for his son to walk with him along the statues as the king lit the candles with his long taper, one after the other. 

“What shall we do about Briseis?” Was Priam’s unexpected question. 

Hector walked along, glancing about them cautiously before responding. “Briseis?”

“She cannot be a priestess of Apollo now, even if he never laid a finger on her, which is unlikely.”

Hector suppressed another impatient sigh. Was that really their biggest concern right now? His father continued his musings.

“She could be with child, we do not know. Yet I do not know if I should give them permission to marry.”

Hector shuddered at the thought of Achilles becoming family. “Has he asked for her?”

“Not yet, but…” Priam paused to light a candle before a shrine to Aphrodite, then turned to give Hector a knowing smile.

“Father, I am afraid he only returned Briseis to get inside the city walls,” Hector finally said bluntly.

Priam’s smile faded and he darted a dissatisfied look at Hector. He was a good son, but the boy had no romance in his soul at all. “You have no faith in Aphrodite.”

Hector looked up at the statue with disfavor, but made no disparaging remarks. The expression on his face said it all.

“… or Apollo,” his father added. “Achilles desecrated His temple. Now Achilles is in thrall to His acolyte,” Priam said with assurance. “The Gods work in mysterious ways.”

“If he asks for her, I suppose you must agree,” Hector said shortly, and didn’t concern himself with it much further. Because he would be very surprised indeed if Achilles married Briseis. 

****

The custom in the royal palace of Troy was for one formal meal a day, in the evenings, and during the day, guests and family moved about fairly independently of one another. Hector had duties, areas he routinely maintained supervision of, and reports he received, but late mornings usually found him with the horses. As he prepared to leave the courtyard for the stables, he found himself uneasily looking about for Achilles. The man had not been seen since the previous night, in the garden. Hector doubted he was lounging in his quarters sipping wine, or pestering Briseis with amorous intent. A faint scrape alerted Hector to movement behind him, and he whirled with unaccustomed speed to see Achilles approaching with his usual inscrutable stare.

“Better,” Achilles praised him, lips curving slightly, and then he added in a tone of command, “Take me to your stables. I’ll see to my horse. You’ll show me yours; I understand you have some of the finest horseflesh in this region.”

The tone made Hector bristle, but he was laboring under duel constraints: one, to honor the decision of his father to treat Achilles as an honored guest, and two, to not alert the barely-civilized creature to his own suspicions. Therefore, he made a single restless, protesting waver (with his entire body), and then settled into obedience, and led the way silently. Achilles padded at his side, and Hector was once again aware of his grace, his power, his energy, and his silence. The four attributes combined made him feel as though a lightning bolt was striking far too near him.

Achilles, for his part, was experiencing pleasure. He had given a command and the Prince of Troy had obeyed. It was the same pleasure he felt when his horse moved under him as he willed it, or when his spear landed where he directed it. 

They entered the stables, which were large and airy, and very clean. A stable hand saw the prince and they exchanged familiar nods. Hector’s servants clearly respected him, Achilles noted. Then he turned to the horses, admiring the row of finely shaped equine heads that emerged from the stalls to greet them. The prince moved down the row, offering each a few brief caresses, and low-voiced praise, till he got to a large bay horse who was apparently a favorite. Hector paused, stroking the satiny jaws and velvety ears. 

“This is Darius,” he told Achilles, and for the first time he seemed relaxed, and happy. His eyes were large and soft, and his brows lost that faint knit they always seemed to carry. There was even a little smile lingering about his lips. He tipped his head down and put his forehead against the horse’s, and they seemed to commune for a bit, before moving apart. 

Watching Hector, Achilles was aware of a sensation in his throat that sharpened, held, and then finally faded. Inexplicably, he felt a sudden urge to return their footing to one of combatants. To provoke a confrontation. He stifled the sensation for several moments, watching Hector caress the fine bay. Then finally it was too much for him.

“I have given you your life three times now. In Greece, it would mean you owe me whatever I would ask in return,” Achilles said abruptly. It wasn’t true, of course, but he decided to create the custom here and now.

Hector didn’t look at him, but he could see the tension returning, the faint cast of sadness and worry. He swallowed before answering.

“You want my horse.”

Achilles was first startled, and then amused. “What? …. No. No, I don’t want the horse.” 

Hector turned to him, and now he could see anger seething beneath the surface. “And is it a Greek custom to threaten your host when you’re a guest in his house? And demand gratitude for not killing him? Is it a Greek custom to sack temples and kill priests?”

Achilles held his ground, staring intently into Hector’s eyes. The other man was taller, but he tended to lower his head like a bull when he was angry, and they were nearly eye to eye. “Is it a Trojan custom to steal wives on diplomatic missions?” he asked in return.

Hector looked away, frustrated, but didn’t protest that it was not he who had taken Helen. To him, it was his responsibility even so. He could have turned the ship around. He could have delivered her back regardless of Paris’s reaction. He could have had his men tie the young prince up and trap him in the hold till they were well away again. He had not. Thus, Paris’s guilt was now his own.

Achilles, however, was not the sort to take on the guilt of others. Into the silence, he said, “I didn’t kill the priests.”

“Your men did.”

“And I’ve sent them away.”

Hector turned back to him, and the distrust in his eyes was clear. “Did you? How far, exactly, did you send them?”

“To our homeland,” Achilles said shortly. “Thus, I think I can say that I have not only given you your life, I have saved your city.”

Hector straightened, not willing to give him so much credit. “Our walls have never fallen,” he assured Achilles.

“And now I am inside them.” Achilles returned instantly.

Hector’s face became very serious. Their eyes seemed unable to leave each other. “And what do you intend?”

“I intend to collect on all you owe me. Your life thrice over, your cousin’s life, my cousin’s life, the safety of your city, it is all owed to me.” Achilles told him with assurance. 

“What exactly do you want from me?” Hector asked him stolidly.

The answer that came from Achilles’ mouth startled even him, although it made perfect sense once he heard it. “I want to train you to be a true fighter.”

Hector stared at him in astonishment.

Achilles continued, warming to his own idea, listening to it spin itself into reality like raw wool into cotton. “You’re a good warrior, the best I’ve ever fought, but I could make you into much more. I used to train Patroclus, but he was young, and we’d barely begun. It was you who took him from me; now you’ll take his place,” he finished in his most commanding tone.

Hector looked as if he would protest, but Achilles stared him down. “I think your father would agree.”

The prince stepped away carefully, and then turned to wander abjectly through the stables. Oh, there was no doubt Priam would agree. To be trained by the mighty, the legendary Achilles? Kings would kill for the honor. But Hector was quite sure that the Greek had no reason to honor him. _I kill your young cousin and you reward me?_ Hector was certain he was being toyed with, just as Achilles had toyed with him the day they fought. He turned back to him, determined to get to the bottom of this bizarre offer.

“I don’t owe you anything.” He spoke in a low and furious tone. “It was not your wife my brother stole. You did not come here for her; you came here for glory and honor. You sacked the temple of Apollo, and you took my cousin long before I met yours. I do not owe you gratitude for refusing to fight me in that temple. I do not owe you for your cousin’s death. He came to me dressed as you. Did—“ Hector paused a minute, and then plunged on, “Did you know he was out there fighting, dressed in your armor?”

The pleasant sensations that had filled Achilles were gone now, and with it the mild look that had begun to come over his face as they spoke. Now his features were stony, his face had flushed slightly, and his eyes had gone pale… a look his second-in-command, Eudorus had learned to fear.

“No.” Achilles said, glaring.

Hector nodded angrily. “Oh? No? And whose responsibility was that? How did he get your armor? Did some servant get a good beating that day?”

Achilles was as still as death, and the horses nearest him began to prance nervously as if sensing a coming storm. Finally he spoke in even tones.

“You must trust a great deal in my mercy. Because you are at my mercy every single moment. You owe me your life and you are at my mercy every… single… moment. I could kill you right here, right now.”

Hector’s eyes flicked over him, noting that he did indeed have his knife tucked into his belt, and Hector was without any weapon. There was no response he could make, but he refused to acknowledge it. He was a Prince of Troy. He would not be bullied into submission in his own stable. He turned and walked away from Achilles without a word.

Achilles waited until Hector had gone approximately six paces. Then he pulled the knife from his belt, held it by the blade, and with one clean move hurled it through the air. It passed Hector and embedded itself with a loud crack in a post just in front of him. 

Hector startled, and then turned to stare at him, wide-eyed, lips parted in shock. Pleasure seeped back into Achilles’ insides, warm and satisfying. Yes. That was the look he wanted to see from Hector, he thought, but it only lasted for a moment. Then Hector closed his mouth determinedly and reached out to wrest the knife from its bed. He gave it a deliberate appraisal and tucked it into his belt. Then he gave Achilles a look that clearly said, “There!” 

And with that, he stalked out of the stables, leaving Achilles staring after him. It took the warrior several moments to realize that a smile had spread over his face so wide it nearly hurt as he watched the prince stride away with his favorite knife. _Hector, Hector, Hector,_ his brain chanted. 

He gave the prince a good head start, and then began making his own cheerful way back to the palace. A confidential chat with King Priam would no doubt find a fuming but obedient prince reporting for his first training with the legendary Achilles, after a very light noon meal.


	9. Training With Achilles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector does not trust Achilles, but Priam does. Should he?

Hector watched the gate close behind him with trepidation. It was early afternoon, and he was outside his beloved city, wearing only a slightly longer version of the grey cotton tunic he wore beneath his armor, his small clothes (of course) and sandals. Achilles, similarly dressed, was beside him. He felt intensely vulnerable without armor or weapons, alone with Achilles in just the spot where they had first fought. Finally, steeling himself, he swung his worried gaze around to look out at the sea. The beach was still mostly empty, although some of the slaves of Trojan citizens and merchants were out there picking through the abandoned camps for usable bits of refuse, and a few soldiers stood watch in the afternoon sun. Most of them had doffed their armor, for although it was not a hot day, armor had a way of making even moderate temperatures uncomfortable.

Achilles watched in satisfaction as the uneasy Hector surveyed his situation, the breeze stirring his curls. _At my mercy,_ he gloated, and then decided to get down to the serious business of training. 

“Do you remember the moment you realized you would lose to me,” Achilles asked, leading him to the very spot.

Hector gave him a look of disfavor. He’d never had a moment where he’d believed otherwise, but he wasn’t about to admit it to the arrogant Greek. Achilles didn’t seem to expect an answer, because he continued speaking.

“It was clear to you when you realized that you were tiring and I was not. You run your horses, but you don’t run yourselves. We’ll begin there. You have no breath. We’ll change that—“

“—I don’t run because I don’t ever intend to retreat.” Hector interrupted firmly.

Achilles merely smiled at him and beckoned, and then began walking toward the distant beach. Hector hesitated, not liking to move away from the walls of his city, particularly unarmed and alone. He felt nearly naked. But his father had given the order, and he would not disobey. Head lowered with suppressed obstinacy, dark eyes darting left and right, he plodded after Achilles, his sandals crunching over the stones that accumulated at high tide’s edge as they neared the water. 

Suddenly Achilles stopped and looked back at him with a wrinkle of disbelief on his brow. Hector stopped too, uncertain.

“You move with all the grace of a cow!” Achilles told him.

Hector simmered silently, his eyes turning again to gaze nervously across the water, looking for distant sails. Finally, with a snort, Achilles started walking toward the water again, and Hector, listening, realized that the man truly did seem to move over the stones almost silently. The prince tried a few mincing steps and then, feeling foolish, gave it up and stomped harder than before, and added as slight twist to every step, making it even louder. It was rather a relief, just for a moment, to act like a childish brat. 

Achilles looked back at him again, in laughing wonder. “You’ll never sneak up on anyone,” he told the prince.

“I don’t sneak up on people.” Hector said flatly, staring him in the eye.

Achilles shook his head, still smiling slightly, and led him down to the soft sand of the beach. Once there, the warrior removed his sandals, and gestured for Hector to do the same. Hector gave one more longing look back at his city and then grudgingly removed his footwear. Now he felt positively indecent. Left to his own devices, he wouldn’t even leave his quarters dressed like this. Not that Hector was left to his own devices very often. His life was one of duty. Now apparently his duty was to be harassed and humiliated by a man who still seemed to regularly entertain thoughts of murdering him.

“We’ll start slow, but you’ll keep up with me,” Achilles informed him with his natural air of authority. Then he turned and began running down the beach. Hector took a deep breath and followed him, and they ran with the city to their left, the sea to their right, and seagulls calling overhead.

It wasn’t unpleasant at first, with the breeze blowing his hair back. Hector concentrated on keeping pace with the figure in front of him, and had to marvel at how the muscular form seemed to run so lightly and effortlessly. Achilles ran like Mercury, toes digging into the sand, his blond hair flying back, yellow in the sun… but it was not long before the tightness began to grow in the prince’s chest, and his breath came shorter and shorter. Finally, wheezing, he stopped and bent over, hands on his knees, struggling to breathe. Achilles continued for a short ways before becoming aware he’d already lost his novice, and turned to jog easily back to his side. His breath was almost as regular as if he’d been walking.

“You see?” He said.

Hector panted, staring up at him with nothing but irritation in his eyes.

“The same breath that sustains you when running, sustains you when fighting.” Achilles told him.

Hector straightened up and moved with shaky legs to the black rocks that jutted out of the sand between the beach and the rising land beyond. He sat down and looked back. Troy was ever farther away. He rested, trying to catch a full breath. Achilles paced around impatiently, gazing off in the direction they’d run, obviously wanting to take him further. Hector made him wait, stubbornly, until his heart no longer felt like it was trying to drumbeat its way right out of his chest. Finally he stood, a look of beleaguered resignation on his face, and they began again.

But now as they ran, Hector’s thoughts returned to the dinner the night before. Hector had said they should not resume normal life until the scouts had returned, assuring them that the Greeks were indeed gone from this side of the Aegean. Achilles had agreed, and then scowled down—Hector’s running slowed as he thought. Why bring back a captive priestess of Apollo unless he intended to get a bigger prize, a better hostage? 

Hector stopped dead in his tracks. Ahead of them the black rocks were larger yet, jutting high, littering the sand and continuing well into the sea, cutting off the beach, making a dead end. And they were many and high, and there were places for soldiers to hide amongst them. Achilles was leading him into a trap, he was certain. With Prince Hector as their hostage, the Greeks could dictate their terms to Priam, he realized with horror.

Achilles had stopped farther up the beach and turned back to look at him in puzzlement. Hector had not stopped because he’d run out of breath again, Achilles could see that. He watched the prince look around at the rocks fearfully, as if searching for something. The Greek tipped his head in puzzlement and glanced around himself to see what had spooked his prince.

“Where are you taking me?!” Hector called out accusingly.

_Taking you? _Achilles wondered, and then watched in mild surprise when Hector abruptly turned and began running back the way they had come at top speed. Finally Achilles understood, and with a smile, ran after him and followed him back toward Troy. 

He gained on Hector easily and at one point, shouted, “Here he is, get him! Get him!” Just to see the terrified Trojan redouble his flagging efforts and run as hard as he could toward his familiar beach. Finally, seeing Hector veering away from the water, he realized that the panicked prince was going to run barefoot over the small, sharp stones and cut his feet to ribbons. Achilles easily caught up and tackled Hector while they were still in the soft sand.

Hector reacted violently, lashing out with fists and feet, and although he could have pinned his thrashing prey, Achilles chose to roll away and lay laughing in the sand until Hector calmed enough to look around and realize that no one was pursuing him.  
He lay gasping and wide-eyed in reaction for some minutes, too whipped up in frenzy to feel foolish. Achilles lay near him, sprawled comfortably in the sand, waiting for Hector to regain himself. 

When the worst of it was over, and Hector lay shuddering, his fists gripping handfuls of sand and releasing them, and gripping them again—all unaware—Achilles got up effortlessly, trotted over to where their sandals still lay in the sand, and brought them, tossing Hector’s onto his chest carelessly. Then he sat and strapped on his own. Finally, he shook his head like an animal to dislodge the sand in his hair, and reached up to scrub at it with his fingers, and brush the sand off his skin and clothing.

Hector still lay panting, staring up at the sky. He seemed to be somewhat out of himself, Achilles thought, looking down at him. He felt an unexpected urge to lie on top of the prince and—blinking, Achilles took a few steps away and stared at the sea, wondering at himself. Then he sighed and accepted the truth. _This is why I didn’t kill him. _There was more to this truth, but he wasn’t ready to speak it even to himself. Suddenly he remembered something his father had said once. He was not speaking to him, but young Achilles had heard it. He was too young to remember the situation or the reason, but he distinctly heard his father say to another man, “Love makes you a slave.” It was the sort of remark that would stay with a young person, and it came back to him now. _Love makes you a slave._

He turned back to see that Hector had finally donned his sandals and now stood, his hair wild and a bit sandy, still breathing rather heavily, head lowered like a bull, watching him distrustfully, eyes large and dark. Achilles gave a short laugh that felt like a painful cough, torn between residual amusement and an ache in his throat, both at once. He felt a pressure in his chest, on his back, around his shoulders, as if he was wearing an invisible harness that had suddenly made itself apparent to him. Moreover, it was now evident to him that the harness had been on him for several days.

Achilles came back to Hector. “Come, prince. Let’s get you back to your beloved city,” he said, and he could hear the defeat in his own voice, but by the withdrawn silence with which Hector accompanied him, the watchful looks he still sent back to the black rocks in the distance, it was clear that Hector could not hear it. 

Achilles was glad Hector couldn’t hear it.


	10. Helen Observes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Usually, those who see the most clearly are the ones not directly involved.

Achilles dined with the family again, and it seemed this would soon become an established practice. Priam at the head of the table, Hector to his right, Paris to his left, Andromache and Helen next, and third, Achilles and Briseis across from each other. The other end was empty, for Priam wanted no one in the chair where his queen once had sat. 

At this their second meal together after her reinstatement in family safety, Briseis watched Achilles for signs of love or affection, and affection she often found, but passion, no more. Her pride prevented her from seeking any return, and although she was very hurt, she concealed it as best she could. Now it only remained to wait and see if she was with child. If she was—well, she would wait and see.

Andromache avoided looking at Achilles. There was nothing complex about her emotions: she hated and feared him. He occasionally gave her a passing glance, aware of her hatred and fear, and fully intending at some point to justify it, although he knew not now.

Paris was merely curious about him, though a little aloof, because Achilles’ effortless courage was a daily rebuke to him for his own cowardice, and although he felt himself to be superior to the other man in charm, education, and personality, he knew at some level that when war comes, those qualities are worthless, and only the talents of an Achilles would matter. But to Paris, this wasn’t a measure of his own worth; it was an indictment of the foolishness of war, that it elevated brutes to the level of heroes, and demoted his own talents to a smoking heap of rubble. 

Nevertheless, Achilles was the only man who had ever bested Hector, and Paris could see at least enough to know that Hector was still uneasy around the Greek, even though it seemed to Paris that the man had capitulated utterly and was now angling to be a member of the royal family of Troy. Paris had no objection to it. Like Priam, he’d rather Achilles be on their side than not. He looked over at Briseis and wondered why she did not look happier. Perhaps she really had preferred being a priestess of Apollo, though he couldn’t understand why. But women were often mercurial like that, he observed with a mental shrug. This was the breadth and depth of Paris’s thoughts.

To Helen, the entire tableau was transparent. She had been given to Menelaus at a young age, and as a matter of self-preservation, had learned to read people well while remaining silent. A beautiful woman who speaks little often finds men in love with her, and Helen took pains to avoid arousing the jealousy of her husband. Life was a dangerous dance to Helen, and she watched the currents between people like a woman hiding in an abandoned house watches spiders’ webs to see the slightest stir of air that warns of an opening door. Thus, the dynamic between Hector and Achilles was evident to Helen. They were both taciturn at dinner, but when one spoke, the other stopped moving as if turned to stone. The few times Achilles spoke, Hector froze and stared at his plate as if hypnotized. When Hector spoke, Achilles watched him like a cat watches a bird. One could almost see the black widening in his eyes. It amazed Helen that no one else could see—she checked herself, observing Andromache, rigid between them like a woman expecting arrows from both sides. She clearly understood something, but Helen was sure she didn’t understand the exact nature of Achilles’ fascination with Hector. She saw only the lion, the agent of destruction, sitting an arm’s length away. _Poor woman,_ Helen thought.

Hector felt like his back had been clawed raw and the pain was over but the skin was sensitized. He was still unsure whether Achilles had attempted to lead him into abduction, or not. If he had not, then Hector’s panic must have made him look fearful, weak-minded and addled. If Achilles had indeed just mounted a failed plot, continuing to trust him, even marginally, made him appear—and feel—foolish in the extreme, and too timid to even make a stand to protect himself. 

Hector gazed at his father, wishing the king would listen to him. But it was becoming increasingly obvious that the king still trusted his own instincts, and those cursed priests, more than anything else. 

Achilles and Priam had the most peaceful minds at the table. Both felt satisfied with their abilities and situation in life. Both were subject to no whims but their own. Priam’s many years as king of a peaceful, secure city made him certain he was blessed by Apollo and right in his decisions. Achilles was simply not introspective by nature. He knew what he knew, he did as he pleased, and when troubling emotions came, he ignored what he felt as long he could. When the emotions could no longer be ignored, he gave them the reins and waited to see where they’d lead. Where they led at the moment was to a series of strange physical pangs that he felt inside at random moments, and a compulsion to be near Hector. Very well. He would be near Hector. How Hector might feel about it was not Achilles’ concern.

“Did the scouts return while I was out?” Hector asked, and Priam shook his head. 

“No, in fact, we expected them hours ago.”

Paris leaned back from the table, gave Helen’s hand a squeeze, and announced that he would go and see what information he could find. Perhaps at this very minute they were returning. He would go and find out. Hector gave him a wondering look. Was his little brother finally ready to shoulder some responsibility? Perhaps having Helen’s safety in his care was helping to mature him. 

When the meal was over, Hector had a quiet word with his wife before she vanished into their quarters. She couldn’t bear Achilles’ presence, and he clearly had no intention of leaving the hall. Then Hector sought out his father, determined to impress upon him the possible implications of Achilles leading him out of Troy, alone and unarmed, and up the beach to the rocks so far away. He drew the king onto a small portico looking out on the garden, and pulled the heavy curtains behind them for privacy.

Priam listened patiently, and then said, “And did the soldiers of Greece emerge from their hiding places and try to seize you?” His tone was one of mild sarcasm, and Hector stared at him in betrayal. Could he not see how serious this was?

“No, father,” he admitted, “But I didn’t allow him to lead me into the rocks.” 

Priam merely looked at him out of the corner of his eye, wondering how it was that one son had such an over-abundance of caution, and the other none at all. 

“Our scouts have not returned.” Hector reminded him emphatically.

“Do you know what I think?” Priam said calmly, eyebrows raised.

“No?” Hector returned shortly, exasperated.

“I think you do not like having a warrior around whose skills are superior to your own.”

Astonished, Hector opened his mouth to protest, but Priam silenced him with a raised finger. “And that is why you must let him train you. He would be like a brother to you if you would only allow it.” This was a scolding, albeit a mild one.

Hector came perilously close to heaving a sigh. He inhaled. Then he held it. Then he bowed his head submissively, and his father left the balcony with his eyes raised to the heavens. They returned to the main hall to find Paris leading the Captain of the Guard in hastily. Achilles was still picking at the grapes on the table. The women had retreated for the evening.

“What news?” Hector asked, seeing the tension in both his brother and his soldier. He did not look directly at Achilles, but it didn’t look as though the warrior was expecting anything interesting to be said.

“Sire, the Greeks have not left. They are several miles down the coast in an inlet, their ships crowded tight together, and no fires on the beach. It is clear they mean to be secret.”

The news froze them all except Achilles, who lifted his head slowly, eyes wide and dangerously pale.

Hector stared at him for a moment. He’d been leading Hector south along the beach. Had he been leading him toward the Greeks? If so, it looked damning. If not… possibly he was not complicit. He turned back toward his Captain. “To the north, or to the south?” Even as he asked it, he realized how much he was hoping that the soldier would answer that it was to the north.

“To the south, my lord,” was, however, the answer.

Hector gave Achilles an accusing look, but the other man didn’t see it. He was looking intently at the soldier.

Before either Hector or Priam could react, Achilles’ military experience took over and rather made him forget he was a guest. “How many ships?” he snapped.

The guard shook his head. “Many. Hundreds.”

“Any black sails?”

“No… I… the scout didn’t mention any—“

“What were the insignias on the sails he saw?” Achilles continued crisply.

“Greek?”

“No, be specific. There could be as few as two kings’ armies and as many as five, how many ships and how many insignias?!” Achilles was losing patience.

“I don’t know, my lord, the scouts saw the ships and then were seen and had to depart to escape arrows. One did not escape.”

“Did they bring back an arrow? I can tell by the arrows whose archers they are.”

“No, my lord—“

Achilles heaved a sigh of impatience. “Tomorrow your scouts will take me to where they saw the ships. I’ll make sense of this.” He stalked off, clearly angry, and the Trojan father and brothers were left alone to look at each other.

Hector spoke urgently and low to his father. “That is where he was leading me!”

Priam looked more serious now. “Perhaps,” he admitted.

Hector gave him another disbelieving look. _Perhaps??_

Paris listened intently, seeming undecided. 

The king raised his hands, “He says he will go. It may be he is making his escape now that the plot has been discovered. If so, I say we let him make his escape. If he returns with reinforcements, we will be ready.”

Hector nodded, relieved that his father was finally ready to contemplate the possibility that was obvious to him: Achilles was still their enemy, and the danger was not over. 

The prince retired to his quarters to comfort his wife, and spent the night with her wrapped tight in his arms. She was so fragile, and although he had always reveled in her delicate beauty, of late his feelings for her tended more toward compassion than ardor. He supposed that now she was the mother of his son, it was appropriate that their relationship grow less…. Lusty. He stroked her hair and she buried her face in his neck. 

While she slept he stared into the dark and replayed the terrifying run on the beach. Achilles had not seemed upset when they returned to Troy. Perhaps it was mere coincidence. Or perhaps he had several plans, and the overthrow of one simply meant moving on to the next. He seemed like that sort. Efficient, emotionless… an intelligent, murderous animal with no conscience whatsoever, focused on Hector, and Troy. Hector prayed that tomorrow, Achilles would ride out on whatever pretense he liked, and not return.


	11. The Greeks Up the Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles rides out to investigate the Greeks, and he takes someone with him.

The morning came, but its developments brought Hector only an increase in alarms. First of all, when he rose and tried to leave the bed, he almost let out a shout of pain. His legs could barely move! He was accustomed to sore muscles after training, but the run on the beach had left him weak yesterday, and sometime during the night his legs had stiffened. Now, he could barely hobble. His father moved more easily than he did. Hector limped about his quarters, struggling into his robes, wincing. When he headed out to the center of the palace, even the two steps down here and the two steps up there along the colonnade nearly made him yelp like a dog. He made his way to the courtyard to find another cause for consternation.

Achilles was dressed in faded, concealing clothes, covered by a plain brown robe with a hood to mask his bright hair, and was just leaping onto the back of his horse. It was clear he meant not to be recognized. This was not an unwelcome sight: Achilles preparing to leave Troy. What was unwelcome was the sight of Paris apparently preparing to leave with him. 

Achilles, like Hector, had slept little. He was seething with anger that Agamemnon had not taken his threat seriously. _I’ll bathe in his blood,_ Achilles thought, pale eyes staring into the night. He couldn’t count on any of the Trojans to be able to identify which ships had remained, so he would do it himself. But his concern was, would they let him back into Troy when he returned? If they were wise, they would not. In their place, he certainly would not. Therefore he needed one of them with him. Briseis had gotten him in the first time, but he could hardly take a woman on an intel-gathering mission for war. He would like to have Hector at his side, but bringing Hector within arm’s reach of the Greeks did not appeal to him. Paris, however, he considered expendable. 

Paris, it turned out, was easy to flatter into accompanying him. He needed someone at his side with intelligence enough to spot what was important, Achilles told Paris, in the early hours. He’d ask Hector, but he’d prefer an archer, and Hector would probably have plans of his own as to how to prepare. Paris nodded eagerly, and went to dress for riding.

“Don’t go,” Helen begged softly. She had little hope he’d listen, but she had to try.

Eagerly, he embraced her. “Don’t worry. It’s just to look around. We’ll be hidden. And if it turns out Achilles is taking me as a hostage, I’ll just turn the horse around and ride as fast as I can. Achilles may be stronger than any man I’ve ever seen,” Paris smiled, “but his horse is just a horse. I’ll take Darius. He can almost fly.”

Helen regarded him for a moment in confusion. “Hostage?” Then she shook her head. “No, I don’t think that is what he plans.”

Paris laughed in delight that his love’s view seemed to be the same as his. “Neither do I. But Hector always expects the worst.”

Helen said nothing. Hector was right to expect the worst, in her opinion. Just that Achilles taking Paris hostage to force Priam to lend soldiers to Agamemnon in the coming years was hardly the worst he could do. She was certain that Achilles’ plans would be much more personal than that.

Paris kissed her ardently and then darted from the room, excited to be on a spy mission with the legendary Achilles. Helen looked after him anxiously. He was so young.

****

“Absolutely not.” Hector said, holding the reigns on Darius’ bridle out of Paris’s reach. The two horses danced nervously around the courtyard in the early dawn hour. Achilles was mounted and ready to go; Paris was leading Darius out to join him when Hector came limping out to confront them. Priam followed slowly.

“You have duties here, you cannot go,” Achilles informed Hector imperiously. Hector gave him a look. _You couldn’t get me, so you’ll take him. I think not. _

But all he did was repeat, “It’s too dangerous. Paris is not leaving the city. You may take any of the guards with you, as many as you see fit, but—“ Hector felt sick offering to sacrifice any of his men. But he couldn’t let a member of the royal family become hostage to Agamemnon, and there was no doubt in his mind now that this was what Achilles planned. But he wouldn’t confront the feral creature. He just wanted the lion outside the walls.

“No guards,” Achilles said dismissively. “The fewer we are, the less notice we’ll draw.”

That did not reassure Hector at all.

Suddenly Priam spoke, in his customary deliberate cadence. “I will accompany you, brave Achilles. You are undertaking a dangerous mission on behalf of my city. It is fit that one of us accompany you. But I cannot endanger my two sons unnecessarily. I will go. Wait while I prepare myself.”

The astonishment his statement created allowed Priam to make a dignified withdrawal in the silence. Hector wanted to chase after him and reason with him, but he dared not release Darius’ reins for fear that Paris would gallop off with him, Achilles at his side. His agitation was stamped on his face as he wavered frantically, his eyes going from the horse, to his brother, to the portal through which his father had just disappeared. 

Achilles watched the drama in silence from the top of his mount. He didn’t care if it was Paris or Priam, although he felt he’d travel faster with Paris. As long as Hector stayed safe within the walls. The imperative voice that told him Hector must live did not extend to anyone else. If he could save Troy, and keep Hector safe within it, he would. If Troy burned to the ground, he’d snatch Hector from the flames and let it burn. 

When Priam returned, Hector took him aside and tried urgently to dissuade him. Of course, the old king would not listen. 

“I leave the sword of Troy in the hands of you and your brother. You are fit to lead. When I was your age,” Priam tipped his head thoughtfully, “I was already king. You are ready. If I do not return, I leave you with only one final command.” Hector listened with stricken eyes. “Do not bargain with the Greeks to ransom me. I can face any fate, slavery, torture, or death, as long as I know that Troy stands, my sons rule, my grandson is safe, and our legacy lives on. Do you hear me?” Priam leaned toward him meaningfully. “Do not bargain. I do not care if they send you my fingers one by one.” 

Achilles was not close enough to hear what they said, but he could see the look of horror on Hector’s face. The prince’s face was open and unguarded when he spoke with his father, his brother, his wife… his horse… Achilles found that he was jealous of all of them. Even the horse. His chest felt like it was burning inside. He looked away impatiently. His entire body was twitching with restlessness, and his mind was clear. _Go. Find out which Greeks remained. Come back. Plot defense. Keep Hector close. _His horse danced under him, feeling the tension.

At length, Priam kissed Hector on the forehead, and then Paris, who was clearly not happy with the change of plans, although not as distressed as Hector. Hector helped his father mount and settle on the horse, and released the reins obediently when his father took them. 

Then, in an impulsive move, which even Achilles recognized as unusual, Hector came to the warrior and took one of his hands. Achilles froze in surprise, his hand suddenly the most sensitive part of his body. Hector stared up at him, open pleading in his face. His eyes wide, looking directly into the cold blue ones above him. 

Achilles drank in that look. Yes. Yes, this was how Hector should always look at him. But the words were unsatisfying: 

“Please. He’s my father. I… I didn’t let Patroclus suffer. Please. Don’t do this. He’s my father.” He spoke in a low tone, not wanting Priam to hear.

Achilles felt heat and pressure rising in his head and knew only that this was not what he wanted to hear from Hector. Coldly, he spoke.

“You Trojans are all alike. You’ll plead for each other, but never for yourselves.” 

Then Priam, apparently deciding to take the lead, took off at a brisk canter out of the compound and toward the city gate, and Hector released Achilles’s hand, although the pleading look remained. Achilles carried the image of that face in his mind as he galloped after Priam, as well as the feeling of Hector’s hands touching his own.


	12. Spying on the Greeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles and Priam ride out, and Hector is certain he will never see his father again.

As the morning passed, Achilles found himself rather admiring the old king. For one thing, he knew the lay of his country, and took Achilles on an unseen path that led directly toward the inlet. What had taken the scouts half a day each way would take them a fraction of the time. Moreover, he rode well, for all he looked as fragile as the dip candles in the sacred temples. Still, Achilles watched him closely. If he fell off that horse, every dry old bone in his body would break, and while Achilles experienced a thrill every time Hector looked at him with pleading or fear, he felt that Hector staring at him in betrayal or hatred would not be nearly as pleasing. But the old king managed to stay on the horse, and occasionally turned stiffly on his mount to wave this direction, or point that way.

The Greek warrior also appreciated the silence of the Trojan king. This was a reconnaissance mission. One makes as little noise as possible. Paris would probably have chattered like a parrot until someone shoved a cloth in his mouth.

The high bluff Priam eventually led them to offered a view of a brilliant blue harbor packed full of Greek ships. They lowered themselves from their horses, and hunkered together behind the rocks to assess the sight and try to identify the ships by their sails.

“No black sails. The Myrmidons obeyed my orders,” Achilles noted in quiet satisfaction. “No dogs. Dog is Odysseus. I see snakes… fronds… the blank sails are Thessaly…” Achilles murmured, almost to himself. “It’s just the three.” Then he started counting.

Priam glanced behind them often, as if expecting to be set upon, but all was silent. 

At length, Achilles nodded. “Fifteen thousand men at most. Let’s go.” 

They led the horses away from the bluff and then mounted, but had barely begun when the sound of galloping hooves behind them announced two Greek soldiers advancing from the rear. Their swords were already drawn. 

Priam was certain he was about to be handed over, but to his surprise, Achilles dismounted, advanced on one, and threw a knife into his throat. The soldier stiffened in shock as his eyes glazed over. He fell from the horse and Achilles snatched his sword. He used it to engage the other, skewering him off of his horse and dispatching him on the ground. It was over before Priam could do anything other than gape.

In the sudden silence afterward, Achilles tossed the bloody sword aside and looked over the two horses. Then he took the reins of the finer of the two, a white mare with arched neck and delicate legs, and led her back to his own horse. He mounted and gestured for Priam to lead them back to Troy, this time at a more moderate pace, so Achilles could keep control of his own steed and the pretty mare beside them. 

When they were far enough from the bluff to safely speak, Priam gestured questioningly toward the white mare.

Achilles gave him the usual inscrutable look. “Hector likes horses,” was all he said. It seemed he considered it explanation enough, and Priam took the entire exercise as proof that his own assessment of the situation was correct. Achilles loved Briseis, and even though he was a bit of a brute, he could tell that Hector was the one most likely to protest. _Courting Hector to court Briseis. Very clever. _Priam smiled. Love would conquer all, he was certain.

****

Hector spent the day in anguish, imagining at every moment his father in chains, in the custody of the thuggish Agamemnon. He limped painfully about, although the more he moved, the less it hurt. When he sat still for a few moments, it all stiffened up again, and his anxiety for his father and his city rose. He went from one lookout station to another, waiting to see ships appearing in the sea, or a messenger appearing at the gate, or a swarm of archers appearing over the dunes. He limped around to the offices that held the inventory of weapons, the storage of grain, to check and re-check their capacities. He sent Paris to check that the archers were making more arrows. He checked on his wife and child. Then he limped back to the lookout stations again.

It was late afternoon when he saw three horses appear over the sands. Why three? Messengers? One was riderless… had they picked up a guard on the way out and… no… Hector made his way to the courtyard as quickly as he could, fighting his aching legs and stiff muscles all the way. When the clash of hooves sounded on the stones, the first person he saw was his father, returning no worse for wear. His relief was so profound he nearly buckled. Priam slid from his horse stiffly.

“You and I will both need to be carried on litters tomorrow,” he remarked drily to his son. Then he went to the steps and mounted them slowly. “Bath,” he said flatly to the nearest servant. 

Hector watched him go, and then went to Darius, to run his hands over the horse’s body, searching for any signs of injury. Achilles watched silently, eyes following Hector’s hands as he caressed the shining bay. Finally, Hector’s face turned to him. 

Achilles was regarding him with a look that seemed to say, _And now you owe me your father’s life. That’s seven. _He didn’t say it, but Hector could practically read it there. However, all the blond did was lead an elegant white mare to him and hand over the reins. “A gift,” he stated. His blue eyes were open and soft in a way Hector had not seen before, but it only confused him. Why would Achilles give him a gift? 

Even as he watched, the open look faded and was replaced by the bland, faintly cynical look he so often wore.

“For your generous and willing hospitality.” Now there was no mistaking the mocking in his tone. Puzzled, Hector took the reins and stroked the mare’s finely molded face before stepping around beside her. 

“She’s injured,” he said, touching the blood on her back and sides.

Achilles looked. “That’s not hers.” With that he turned and led his horse to the stables. 

Hector stared after him, wide-eyed. The man had brought his father back safely, but someone had clearly died today. He swallowed. The Greek was mad. Mad, feral, and inside the gate. Again. And more firmly ensconced in his father’s favor than ever, Hector had no doubt.


	13. In The Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector confronts Achilles (as much as one dares confront a madman.)

And now it seemed that Achilles was a trusted member of the council! Hector found, when his father convened it that evening after dinner, that Achilles had a seat amongst the priests and generals. This was astounding to him, and he looked around, wondering if he was the only one who remembered this man slashing his way through Trojan soldiers to the temple of Apollo. Upon reflection, he supposed he was the only one left alive who’d actually witnessed it. 

Watching them gather around the Greek as he held forth on Agamemnon’s usual strategies, weaknesses of Nestor’s archers, which Thessalonian generals were considering revolt, Hector shook his head slightly, eyes burning in disapproval. They all thought Troy had a pet lion now. 

For his part, Achilles glanced over often, but all he saw on Hector’s darkening brow was his unflinching suspicion. Everyone seemed willing to be won over except Hector. And the more stubbornly Hector refused to either give in to fear or warm up to trust, the more Achilles felt the tightening of the harness around his chest and throat. Hector was determined to remain a worthy opponent, and nothing but such silent defiance could have commanded more respect and adoration from Achilles… or more determination to absolutely destroy it. But how to destroy Hector’s resistance without destroying Hector, well. He did not even have a plan. And he felt remarkably cheerful about it. 

Hector listened in skeptical silence as Achilles explained to the council that Agamemnon was undoubtedly waiting until he—Achilles—had left. “He’ll have a long wait,” Achilles added. No one seemed to find that an ominous statement except for the prince. They were far too comfortable around him, Hector thought.

Velior, one of the confounded priests that Hector had grown to dislike, gave a chuckle. “Come now, Achilles… you are a fearsome warrior, but are all 15,000 remaining Greeks afraid of you?”

Achilles took the ribbing good-naturedly. “No, mostly one Greek,” he smiled. “Agamemnon. I told him I’d cut his head off if he didn’t leave, and now I am going to cut his head off.”

Paris leaned forward, rather unexpectedly, and asked with a child’s directness, “Why would you do this for us?”

The room fell silent. Achilles regarded the young prince for a moment, as if searching his face for something. Then he gave a dismissive shrug. “I’ve always wanted to cut his head off. Now I have a reason. You know, he said he’d conquer Troy and build a statue of himself in the city center.” There was a murmur of affront. “When I’m done with him,” Achilles added, “you should build a fountain with a statue of him in the center, with no head. And red wine can pour out the neck.” A roar of appreciative laughter filled the room, but when it died, Achilles spoke in a more serious tone. “He disrespected me. I told him to leave and he did not. Now we’ll see.” His face settled into something forbidding. 

The Trojans glanced at each other with approval. They were congratulating themselves on winning Achilles to their side, Hector saw with contempt. As if he were responding to something in Troy. _We are less than ants to him, _he thought. And but for himself, he was right.

As the Trojans filed out, Achilles turned to him and said briskly, “Training tomorrow, early. I’ll come and get you when it’s time.”

Startled, Hector was formulating his refusal, but Priam looked over at him. “War is coming,” he said firmly. “I would see you prepared.”

The prince shut his mouth firmly and stared straight ahead. 

Achilles strolled past him and spoke in a low voice, “Come to the garden.” Then he disappeared silently into the shadows in the depths of the hall. 

Hector turned to his father, eyes veritably pleading for respite. 

Priam was looking at him with some irritation. “What does the man have to do, fall at your feet?” He asked in some wonderment.

Hector rose from his seat, wincing at his still aching legs, and made his way stiffly to the garden. Achilles fall at his feet? Stupefying prospect. He’d only fear for his ankles.

He stepped into the dimness of the garden, lit only by torches, and listened. Achilles was out here, undoubtedly waiting in the dark to spring at him. All he heard were crickets chirping. He took a few painful steps forward.

“Do you like the mare?” 

Hector turned quickly, but couldn’t see where his hunter was. He maintained a stubborn silence until Achilles showed himself. Finally the gold of his hair caught a glimmer from the nearest torch as he detached himself from the shadows and moved forward silently.

“Whose blood was that?” Hector demanded.

“No one you’ll miss.”

Hector waited until Achilles stopped, somewhat more than two arms’ length from him. As if it were Hector who was dangerous, and Achilles who must be cautious.

“Why are you helping us?” Hector finally asked in exasperation. “We are not Greeks, you’ll get no glory in Greece for betraying them, you have reasons for hating me, what are you really here for?”

“I hate Agamemnon far more than I ever hated you.” Achilles responded calmly.

“Why?”

“He’s greedy, mad, and demands unconditional obedience from everyone.”

Hector gave an unamused huff of laughter. “And how are you different?” He said boldly, plaintive eyes searching the other man’s face.

Achilles merely smiled. “I’m not greedy.”

Silence fell. Hector looked away, lost in thought. How to defend his city when the Greeks were hiding up the coast, and there was a madman inside the walls who could open those gates whenever he pleased?

“What are you thinking?”

Hector turned back to him.

“That you plan to destroy this city, and I don’t know how to stop you.” He admitted miserably.

“… I don’t.” Achilles said, with just enough confusion to make Hector wonder if his father was right, and he was—but his father never saw Achilles prowling contently around the temple of Apollo, leaving bloody footprints on the altar. His father never lay in the sand looking up the length of Achilles’ sword into the coldest eyes ever seen.

“Then why did you come across the Aegean? Oh, I forgot. For glory. So people will say your name long after you are gone and… do you understand what a foolish desire this is?” Hector turned his shoulders squarely at Achilles, and lowered his head in the manner that the other man had come to enjoy. “You won’t even know it. You think you’ll hear those stories and poems and songs? You won’t. You’ll be gone, and every chance you had to know the fruits of a humble, decent life will be gone!”

Achilles listened to the lecture in wonder. How did such a man come to exist? He spoke of… he WAS humble and decent. But he fought like no one else. Fueled by what? What? Achilles became hungry to grapple with him again. He wanted to lunge at him now, right here in the garden, take him down onto the grass. He wanted to taste the prince’s neck while he struggled helplessly in his grasp. The warrior lost himself for a moment in the thought.

The increasing intensity in his pale stare returned Hector to his native caution. Lion-baiting was no sport for a prince with responsibilities. He had to calm himself, get control, stop revealing his uncertainties and weaknesses. He stepped back a pace.

“Why… why did you want me to come to the garden? What did you want to ask me?” He finally managed.

Achilles blinked, and seemed to draw himself back into semi-civility.

“Do you like the mare?” He repeated.

Hector withdrew a few more steps, carefully. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, I do. She’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.” His voice softened as he added honestly, “She’s a work of art.”

Achilles turned partially away and then the delayed reaction to Hector’s last remark hit him. He’d never heard that soft tone from the prince, and his head lifted and then fell back as if he’d suddenly decided to stare up at the stars. The invisible harness seemed to tighten to a frightening degree, and his arms lifted slightly from his sides as if bracing for pain.

Alarmed at the strange reaction, Hector backed slowly away and left the garden as quickly as his aching legs would allow. Moments like that, he thought the legends might be true: Achilles might not be entirely human. Shivers ran down his back, and his eyes were fixed with trouble, but he made his way with customary steadiness to his quarters. His wife was undoubtedly in need of comfort, and Hector must present her with as reassuring a manner as he could do without a faulty degree of deception.


	14. Alone With Achilles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lion pounces.

Hector spent another night brooding about the best way to handle Achilles and finally decided that cautious cooperation was his only option. Thus, morning found him washing down a bit of cheese and bread with water, followed by a slice of fruit, and then he emerged from his quarters to find Achilles already pacing in the hall of the gods. Hector was rather surprised to see him among the huge statues and the remnants of last night’s melted candles. He came forward, determined to treat the man with… if not friendship, at least cordiality.

“Were you praying?” He asked politely, not wanting to intrude.

Achilles looked at him blankly. “To who?”

Hector gave a telling glance around at the looming statues.

Achilles flicked a dismissive glance over them. “Ah. No. Come, I found a good spot beyond the vineyard.” He led the way out and gave an amused side-eye to the prince. “I thought you’d want to stay inside the city today. I see you still can’t walk right.”

Hector grimaced but kept pace with him gamely. “I can manage.” He looked over at the warrior and noticed two swords in his hands, with the blades encased in heavy leather, with thick cords stitched up the sides. They looked safe enough, but bulky and heavy. “I am glad not to run, though.” He admitted.

Achilles nodded, glancing again at Hector’s wincing gait. “Tomorrow. You’ll be ready tomorrow.”

Hector doubted it, but kept his doubts to himself. It was one of his talents: keeping his doubts to himself. Life with Paris and Priam demanded it.

When they had passed the vineyard, they reached a secluded, grassy clearing munched down by the goats and surrounded by shrubbery and olive trees. It reminded Achilles of the stone court in Larissa where he’d trained Patroclus, only greener, and softer.

Achilles turned to him, one leather-clad sword in each hand, and slipped easily into the role of instructor. “You are skilled with your sword, but you still hold it as if it’s something foreign.” He put one down, and tossed the other to Hector, who caught it well enough, and added. “You should be as comfortable with it as—“ he reached down and grabbed a handful of himself at the groin.

Hector gave a blink of shock and glanced around as if thinking someone might have seen that. Achilles grinned. “Toss that sword back to me.” 

Hector complied, silently, and Achilles caught it by the handle. Then he flung it back at Hector, giving it a spin. Hector caught it by the leather-covered blade.

“That would have cut your fingers off,” commented the blond. Then he motioned for Hector to toss it back again. Hector narrowed his eyes and sent the blade spinning back through the air. Achilles caught it effortlessly by the handle, and flipped it back again, high into the air.

“There go the fingers of your other hand,” he teased, and Hector sent it back in the same manner, but Achilles caught it by the handle again. “Keep your eye on the handle—“ he flung it again and grinned. “Well, now you have a stump.”

Hector caught it and held it. “How long are we going to play this game?” He asked sternly.

“Until lunch. Come on. Higher now.”

Irritated, Hector gave the sword a launch that, were it not encased in leather, would have taken someone’s arm off. Achilles caught it firmly by the handle and launched it back the same way. Hector caught it with his chest and winced.

“It’s up to you how we do this,” Achilles told him with equanimity.

Controlling his temper, Hector took the sword in hand and committed himself to not devolving into a furious nine-year old. But it was difficult. Something about Achilles always provoked a reaction from him. He simply couldn’t be neutral or calm around the man.

They tossed the sword back and forth in relative harmony for a while, and Hector did gradually see improvement in his own tracking of the handle. “What happens when I get good at this?” He asked.

“Then we do it with both swords,” Achilles answered.

Hector grimaced. Of course.

****

When they completed lunch, Hector made an abortive attempt to see to the record-keeping, but Achilles shook his head. “I know you now. You have checked the same records over and over. You know exactly what supplies you have. Let’s go down to the pool.” 

Shoulders slumped a bit in defeat, and feeling very much like a schoolboy in the hands of a strict tutor, Hector accompanied his task-master down to the lower depths of the palace, where a large indoor pool with columns within it seemed to live in a world of echoes and moisture, where faint laps of water licked at the stone edges. The only daylight came from slits of openings at the top of the structure. It was large and cool, and not a place to come to at night without many, many candles. But in full day, sunlight streamed in shafts that hit the white columns and reflected into the cloudy green water. Most of the inhabitants of the palace forgot it was here, but Achilles had found it in his explorations.

_Now I know what he does all day,_ Hector thought, and wondered if the Greek had found the tunnel leading out of (and therefore into) the city. He was musing on ways to find out whether Achilles had been in the tunnel, or to know when it did happen, when they reached the edge of the pool and the Greek pointed at the floor. 

“Sit here.”

Hector stared at the spot for a moment. Achilles watched him with a slight smile, as if he could read the prince’s thoughts.

“You hesitate whenever I speak in that tone. You don’t like it.”

Hector eyed him. “And yet you keep using it.”

Achilles stepped back and lifted his hands, palms upward in an exaggerated pose of deference. “Please, my Prince, sit here,” he said mockingly, and then his smirk left and his eyes lost focus and lowered. He drew his breath in as if a strange sensation had come over him. His open hands curled up like flowers dying.

Simultaneously, Hector’s face turned hot and red of a sudden, and he sat down, wincing as his leg muscles throbbed in protest. Then he settled himself and let his legs dangle in the water. Suddenly he was tired of resisting. He didn’t even know what he was resisting. He stared down into the water.

Achilles shook his head slightly as if clearing it. Then he knelt behind Hector and the prince’s alarm stirred again as the other man took his right arm and pulled it behind him, stretching his shoulder gently.

“You have no flexibility,” he murmured, just behind Hector’s ear, and set about pulling the arm and shoulder back, and then releasing it, and then pulling it back again further. Hector sat straight and wide-eyed as Achilles handled him, one warm hand on his chest, his back against Achilles’ body, his arms being pulled most suggestively behind him.

Suddenly, Achilles embraced him roughly and fully, wrapping both arms tightly around him and squeezing Hector tight against his chest. “Stop cringing when I touch you,” he instructed sharply.

Hector could barely breathe, the other man held him so tightly. Nonetheless, he managed to say, “I don’t cringe.”

“No?” Achilles squeezed him tighter, and leaned over his shoulder so their faces were near. He stared at the prince, his lips nearly touching the close trimmed beard. His voice was very low. “I think you’re cringing now.”

“I’m barely breathing now!” Hector snapped defiantly.

Achilles smiled, but his eyes had taken on that pale cast, and Hector’s nerve cracked. “I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know!”

The Greek settled down behind him, and the grip became less like a hold and more like an embrace somehow. “I want to know you.”

Hector turned his head toward him, very afraid of what that meant, exactly, and didn’t respond. 

Achilles ran his hand over a scar on Hector’s chest that curved around like a crescent. “Where is that from?”

Hector swallowed and answered, “Just swordplay with a fellow during a visit to a village of Lydians. We weren’t serious.”

“How long ago,” the voice was intimately quiet in his ear.

“I don’t know. Ten years?” He found his own voice sinking to the same quiet level. The arms still held him, his back was against the other man.

The questing hand dropped to his thigh and found another scar, a thick one.

“This?”

“Fire. The stables were burning—“

“Did any horses die?”

“No, no, I was there.” Hector said.

“And you got burned saving your horses,” the tone became almost fond. “Where is this from?” The hand was up on his forehead now, finding a tiny scar he’d forgotten about. 

“Oh. Nothing, I… think I fell in the kitchen as a child.” Hector realized he was allowing the other man’s hand to range freely over him. The hand went into his hair and caressed his head, and then sank to his nape. Achilles buried his fingers into the dark curls and pulled until Hector’s head sank back on the round, muscular shoulder behind him. The warrior released his arms and lifted the other hand to Hector’s throat, and wrapped around it, squeezing lightly. Even though his arms were free now, Hector felt he could not lift them.

“This haircut, now. This is from me.” Achilles whispered.

Hector lay supine against him, eyes staring sightlessly, unable to move.

“Look at me,” Achilles breathed, his face nearly touching his captive’s.

Instantly, Hector closed his eyes in defense. “No.”

The hand on his throat tightened. He tried to lift his head but the fingers gripping his hair didn’t give. 

“Look at me.”

Hector kept his eyes closed for as long as he could bear it. He realized that he was horribly aroused. Under his tunic, he was rock hard, and he was sure Achilles could see it. The hand gripping his hair suddenly released him and moved around and down to his groin, covering his erection and squeezing it gently over the soft cloth he wore. Hector let out a gasping cry and opened his eyes. Achilles’ face was very close, watching him. The face was flushed, and the eyes had grown dark, and Hector stared into them for a moment, but when the fingers gripping his hard flesh began to flex and fondle, he couldn’t bear it anymore and closed his eyes again, gasping. The hand around his throat tightened and the hand at his groin grew more insistent. 

“Lie down,” he heard the other man whisper, and though his arms were free, they felt paralyzed. Achilles bore him sideways gently until they were resting on the cool stone. The hand left his throat and behind him, he felt his clothing being pulled away until his buttocks were exposed to the heat and nakedness of the man behind him. 

“No, no, no…” he protested, but the protest was the softest of whispers, and faded when the fingers returned to caress his cock.

“I’m not. I’m not,” Achilles reassured him, and slid himself between his captive’s buttocks—not penetrating. Just pressing, and sliding, and grinding at the most sensitive part of him.

They writhed together. Hector was lost in shock, fingers splayed wide, eyes half closed and unseeing. The sensations he was experiencing were beyond anything he’d felt in the marriage bed. The hands that massaged him through his clothes seemed to know exactly—

Hector let out a strangled cry and shuddered, his seed spilling into his clothes. Behind him he felt Achilles sink his teeth into his neck and thrust against him harder and faster. The fingers on his cock squeezed, and the pleasure-pain made Hector give another sob. The sound was enough to finish Achilles, who twisted against him, gripping him tightly as he convulsed, and then went still. Eventually his hold relaxed, and they lay panting together, listening to the echoes of the water lapping in the pool, and looking at the eerie glow cast by the reflections around the cavernous room. Slowly, their breathing quieted and evened out.

Finally, Achilles spoke softly. “That’s how you stop me.”

Hector’s eyes opened, and immediately anger grew inside him.

“No.” He turned and managed to sit up, though somewhat dizzy. He pulled free of the arms that held him. “No, this is not going to happen again.”

Achilles gazed up at him, sated and assured. “Oh, it’s going to happen often. This and more,” he stated firmly.

Hector turned his head away in disbelief, trying to hide the thrill that went through him at this promise. “You’re mad!”

Achilles’ full lips turned up at the corners. “Do it for Troy!”

The prince was not amused. “I’m not a whore.”

“Oh, you certainly are,” the warrior purred.

Hector clambered to his feet and turned to stare down in outrage. “You forget yourself, warlord!” 

Achilles remained where he was, comfortably reclined, and folded both hands behind his head. “Why did you marry? More to the point, who did you marry: the daughter of the King of Thebes. You’ve sold yourself for Troy once already, I don’t see why you can’t do it again.” His eyes narrowed. “It’s more urgent now than ever that you do.”

Hector arranged his clothing as best he could, and did his best to ignore the unpleasant moisture under his tunic. Then he stalked away from Achilles toward the stairs. “I think we’re finished training.”

“No, we’ll begin again tomorrow morning,” he heard the Greek say assuredly behind him.

Hector paused to glare back. “I’m certain my father has no intention of me becoming your plaything.”

Achilles scoffed. “For Troy, he’d serve you up in a dish if I wanted.“

Hector opened his mouth but Achilles overrode him. 

“When I stood outside the gate and called your name, did he even try to stop you? Or did he send you out to certain death without a qualm?”

Hector froze.

“You’re horseflesh to him. It’s the city he loves,” Achilles said with the air of finishing the conversation. He stood and removed his tunic with a quick, careless motion, standing naked and unconcerned before Hector. He let the prince see his full splendor for a moment before entering the pool with a splash, and sinking down until the ends of his blond hair floated on the water.

For a moment, Hector only stood, feeling the ache in his chest at this view of his father, feeling how painfully true it rang. Then he looked over at the golden man calmly treading water and watching him. Something about Achilles’ appearance niggled at his consciousness. There was something odd about his nakedness. Then it struck him.

“You have no scars,” Hector said abruptly, brows knitting slightly in confusion.

The smug smile reappeared, and then Achilles swam to the far end of the pool. As Hector turned slowly away and mounted the steps, he heard the other man call out commandingly, “Wear white at dinner.” Hector paused to give him another look of utter outrage, and then stomped up the stairs. He made his way to his quarters, eyes black with emotion, and directed the servant to find his newest, deepest, darkest, bluest robes for dinner.


	15. Hector Makes a Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can become Achilles' plaything, or he can eliminate the threat. Hector must decide.

At dinner, Priam glanced over Hector’s robe. He looked quite formal. “Is there an occasion I have forgotten?” He asked.

Hector’s faced flushed a bit, but kept his eyes on his plate. “No, father.”

Achilles lifted his chalice and spoke near the end of the table. “New clothes for new beginnings.”

The king seemed to accept that as a reasonable toast, and lifted his chalice as well. “New beginnings,” he affirmed, and drank.

Hector turned deliberately and gave Achilles a hateful stare, but the man just smirked back at him, and then let his gaze drop to Hector’s lips.

Across the table, Helen thought silently, _It’s begun already. The breaking in. Hector has not a chance._

“Have the Greeks changed position?” Paris asked Hector.

“No.” Hector turned his attention to his plate, determined never to look at Achilles again, ever. “I’ve sent—“ and then he stopped. He saw no reason to openly discuss their plans before the enemy. “—I’ve made inquiries.”

Said Priam, “They can wait there for months, they have the supplies. I say we let them wait. Let their supplies dwindle, let their morale fade. It need not concern us as long as they make no move.”

Achilles nodded. “Tomorrow, when we run, Prince Hector and I will speak with the fishermen who trawl along the shore.”

“I see no reason why I should leave the city.” Hector said firmly. “Not with 15,000 Greeks right up the coast.”

“Because I need to be seen.” Achilles replied coolly. “Agamemnon needs to know I am still here, and he needs to know that you are under my protection.”

Hector slapped down his fork. “I am NOT under your protection,” he said huskily, still staring at the table.

“I meant the city.” Achilles smiled at him.

Hector looked as if his head would explode. Helen nearly smiled. It wasn’t funny, she told herself. Poor Hector.

Paris was staring quizzically at Hector. Andromache, pale and silent as ever, merely closed her eyes. She could feel it coming. She just didn’t know what it was.

“But you must be seen with me,” Achilles added smoothly. “Word must spread of our collaboration. We must appear as brothers.”

Priam nodded. “Very wise.” He glanced at Hector. “Go with him tomorrow.”

“Yes, father,” Hector said automatically, and returned to staring at his plate. _I am horseflesh,_ he thought.

When they rose from the meal, Hector glanced up and unintentionally made eye contact with Achilles. The warrior made a subtle gesture toward the gardens, and the command was obvious. Hector turned his head in clear refusal and started off blindly in any direction except the gardens.

Behind him, he heard Achilles invite Paris to the gardens instead, and he slowed his angry stride, listening as Paris accepted the invitation.

“By the way, you do have an escape route other than the gate, I hope,” Achilles said casually.

“Oh yes, that door at the end of the vegetable garden by the broken barrels,” Paris said blithely. 

Hector turned slowly, arms limp at his sides as if weighed down by stones. Achilles looked past Paris at him, and his eyes were full of meaning, just for Hector. “Show me?” He said pleasantly, and Paris went eagerly to get a torch, so he could show the Greek how to get into the city.

Hector sank down to the stone floor and leaned against a column, lightheaded with horror. Achilles merely looked at him coldly from across the hall until Paris returned with the torch. Then off they went, leaving Hector feeling too weak to move for several minutes. They were doomed. Perhaps they deserved it, he thought dazedly.

****

It was now near midnight. Achilles stood looking down at the bed in the guest quarters, trying to predict the prince’s next move. Hector’s choices were few. He couldn’t convince Priam to expel the warrior—and no one could truly make Achilles do anything. The prince would have to comply with Achilles’ demands, whatever they might be… or kill him. Well, try to. 

He turned to glance around the room. There was a servants’ cot in a corner, but no servant. Achilles had chased him out the first night. The warrior dragged the cot out onto the balcony, which faced west, and closed the heavy woven hangings most of the way. Then he returned to the bed and gathered up what blankets and robes he could to create a shape on the bed resembling a man, and drew a cotton cover over it. Finally, leaving one candle burning in a far corner, he padded out onto the balcony and made his pallet on the servant’s cot, thankful that there was only a crescent moon, and it would not be a bright night. He settled in to wait and see.

Hector was on his balcony as well, facing north. He sat with a cup of mead in one hand, and Achilles’ knife in the other. He had to kill the man, there was just no other alternative. Paris had given the Greek such a tour of their fortifications and by-ways, Hector was certain there was nothing left the warrior didn’t know. But it was no small thing, to murder in cold blood a guest in your house… your father’s house, he amended… whom everyone else seemed eager to embrace. He’d poured himself a cup of mead to fortify his nerve, and now found that he could not drink it. This was no assassination to carry out blurry with spirits. In his mind he could see Achilles’ face looking calmly at him, eyes slightly narrowed, as if waiting. He could see that full lower lip, that golden hair. He lifted the cup to his lips and then lowered it again, frustrated. 

Finally, when the silence and darkness of the courtyard and colonnade convinced him it was time, Hector stood in the darkness. Moving through his quarters as silently as possible, he passed his sleeping wife, and the basket his child slept in. The stone was cool against his bare feet, and he stepped slowly as he felt his way down the passage of the family quarters, and around the corner to the guest quarters, the shining knife clutched in one hand.

At length, he moved through the heavy hangings that offered privacy, but not security, at the entrance of the guest rooms. The air seemed still and heavy, and Hector felt as though breathing were difficult, and his eyes were burning as if with smoke. Inside the room, Achilles’ few belongings were scattered about. His armor lay on a blanket in the corner, with a small array of weaponry. Among them, a small, dark bundle that Hector recognized as his own braid. A candle burned near it, throwing shadows on the still shape in the bed, swathed in twisted folds of cotton.

Hector stood over the bed, knife in hand.

Achilles lay unseen on the balcony, in the darkness, watching the scene through the opening of the draped hangings. He could see the prince in the dim light staring down at the bed, his face drawn in lines of indecision and anguish, his dark eyes deep in shadow. The knife was clenched in his hand, but he hadn’t raised it to strike yet. Hector’s eyes traveled the length of the shape in the twisted sheets, and after a moment, his head tipped back in a paroxysm of emotion. Achilles admired his throat in the candlelight. Then the prince tossed his head from one side to another like a bull in the arena, with arrows tormenting him. Finally, he brought both fists to his forehead, the knife protruding from one of them. Then his shoulders slumped. 

His face twisted in self-loathing, Hector placed the knife gently at the foot of the bed and withdrew, lips tight, eyes haunted, and Achilles watched him go. _A good man,_ he heard Briseis’s voice say in his head. A man who could kill in combat, cutting down even the colossus Ajax. But he could not kill an unarmed, sleeping intruder who threatened his city.

Achilles contemplated letting Hector retreat undisturbed, but disturbing Hector was the greatest joy in his life now, so he got to his feet and followed the dark shape into the passage. 

Drawing up behind him, he said in a low voice, “I thought—“

Hector whirled around in fright, just visible in the soft moonlight.

“—you didn’t sneak up on people,” Achilles finished.

Hector stared at him for a moment, chest rising and falling with agitation. Finally he ground his teeth, brandished a finger, and said quietly, “I play by your rules now. I could have killed you; I spared your life. You owe me now. Leave my city.”

Achilles gave a low huff of laughter. “You could have stabbed a bundle of cloth. I was on the balcony. You are still in my debt and you’ll pay me every day until I am satisfied.” Then he took a step closer. “And I am very difficult to satisfy, so you should accept my presence here, and add pleasing me to your list of duties. You do have many duties, do you not, Prince of Troy?” Achilles taunted. “I am now one of them. But you will manage. You were clearly meant to be a beast of burden.”

Hector’s body was a figure of tension, down to his clenched fists. “You have nothing but contempt for a man who loves his family and his home.”

“Such men disappear and leave no trace,” Achilles said matter-of-factly. “They’re sheep.”

“And you’ll find glory in killing sheep? So other sheep will remember you? Perhaps when you burn Troy to the ground, they’ll name you God of Sheep.” Hector snapped.

Achilles was actually silenced, for once. Another wash of unidentifiable sensation welled inside of him, coming up inside his gut and chest, and forming a bubble in his throat. He watched in respectful silence as Hector turned and stalked back to his own quarters.


	16. On The Beach

Morning came with no new alarms from the Greeks camped up the coast.

Achilles led Hector out of the gates of Troy and over the stones toward the beach. Hector marched stolidly along, eyes fixed straight ahead. He’d promised himself that he would conceal any further reactions to the warlord’s taunts. Perhaps he could bore the man into leaving.

Achilles gave a pointed glance at Hector’s sandals as they crunched on the stones. “Mooooo….” He said.

Hector ignored him. Achilles grinned, feeling a bloom of happiness in his heart. Hector being stern and princely was becoming one of his favorite sights to behold. They got to the soft sand, and Hector obediently shucked his sandals alongside Achilles. The warrior pointed north.

“We’ll head away from the Greeks. Does that suit My Lord?” He asked mockingly.

Hector gave him a look with his serious black eyes. “Yes.” He said shortly.

Achilles felt the weight of the harness grow heavier on his back. There was an odd, accepting stillness in him, of a sudden. He refused to contemplate it.

“Keep up,” he said lightly, and set off running.

Hector followed, concentrating on his breath, and the wind in his hair. He tried to count his steps while he inhaled, and again while he exhaled. At first he could inhale for four paces, and exhale for three, but soon it was three and two, and then two and one. Eventually he called out to the blond figure flying in front of him.

“Enough—“ he said, and slowed to a heavy walk. He glanced behind him, always wanting to keep the distant wall of Troy within his view. He sat down on one of the black rocks that littered the coast where the beach narrowed.

His tormentor immediately grasped his hands and pulled him up again. “No, don’t sit. At least walk.”

Hector rose and plodded obediently. The breeze picked up and refreshed him. Achilles veered from his side and walked into the sea up to his thighs and beckoned. 

Hector shook his head. “I don’t swim well.”

Achilles regarded him with disdain. “How can you not, when it’s right here?” He spread his arms wide at the blue sea, the blue sky, the pale beach and dark rocky frame about it all.

Hector kept walking, eyes ahead. “I never had time.”

Achilles regarded him, dropped his arms, and walked along near him.

“Just come in and get your feet wet.”

Hector obediently waded into the water up to his knees and then continued on. “My brother can swim,” he admitted.

Achilles read an entire lifetime into that remark. While Hector was learning to shoulder responsibility, Paris was swimming.

“Come in deeper. I’ll stay with you.”

Hector cast him a sharp look, as if on the verge of informing him that he did not need a caretaker, but reminded himself he would comply until the man lost interest. He allowed Achilles to lead him out until the water soaked his tunic to the waist. Walking in the water was some effort, he found. He watched with some envy as Achilles lunged into the water and swam a few strokes, then stood again.

“You could do that, couldn’t you?” The Greek prodded.

Hector gave another uneasy glance toward Troy. Still in sight. He sank into the water, gave a few clumsy splashes, and struggled to his feet again. “There’s a riptide,” he said, pointing out to where the water seemed to change colors.

Achilles gave him a pitying smirk and led him out of the water. Once on the sand, they pulled the small clothes from beneath their tunics that wrapped between the legs and wrung them out, spreading them on the rocks to dry. Hector sat down carefully, feeling shamefully decadent with his naked buttocks perched on a rock, and only a wet tunic concealing it. He watched as Achilles whipped off his wet tunic to wring that out as well, and stood naked in the sun, unconcerned at whether he was shocking the sea gulls.

Hector regarded him surreptitiously and then looked politely away. Even after their one intimacy, it didn’t seem right to stare at that perfect, smooth, unmarked golden skin. “You might as well have taken it off before you went in,” he said.

Achilles shrugged and then gave a luxurious stretch, and Hector forgot to be circumspect. The man was sleek as a pelt. He caught the prince looking at him and gave him a predatory smile. “Take yours off.”

Hector looked away. “No…”

Achilles started toward him. “Take it off or I’ll take it off you, in shreds. Imagine the walk back to the palace!”

Hector started up from his rock and Achilles continued to advance, a gleam in his blue eyes. Hector pulled off his tunic and bunched it in front of his groin, glancing around again in consternation. Achilles reached him and snatched it out of his hands, turning to wring it out and lay it on a sun-baked rock. Then he put one foot up on another rock, turned to admire the ocean, and gave himself a casual fondle.

The prince watched this display with reproving eyes, but Achilles just grinned at him. “Balls need air.”

Hector laughed despite himself, shaking his head with amazement. Finally he went and sat on a rock nearby, looking around often. 

Achilles left off airing himself and began prowling around the rocks, looking for something. At length, he called to the prince from between two large boulders, and beckoned.

Stepping carefully around the rocks, feeling the breeze and sun on parts of his body that had rarely enjoyed that experience, Hector came to see what Achilles had found. It was merely a smooth, sandy spot down between the rocks. Achilles pointed at it. “Sit there,” he commanded.

Hector hesitated, as he always did when Achilles became pre-emptory. “Why?”

“Because down there, no one can see you.”

That was appealing, when naked, so Hector sat down, and leaned back against one of the rocks. It was comfortable. Then Achilles knelt in front of him, between his knees. He sank down between his legs, pushed his thighs apart, and lay his head on Hector’s stomach, his throat fully against the cock that immediately began to harden. Hector gave an inarticulate cry, and tried to sit up again, but Achilles grabbed both his wrists and said, “Settle.”

Hector’s heels dug into the sand in protest, but the grip on his wrists tightened, and with a deep breath, he leaned back and waited tensely, his eyes staring down in shock at the reclining form between his legs, from the blue eyes watching him, to the blond hair sweeping back. The bronze back thick with muscles led to perfect buttocks only slightly paler.

Achilles smirked and began nuzzling, and Hector’s head fell back against the rock in submission. He lay supine and gasping while his captor licked and sucked on his flesh, now taking almost the entire length in his mouth and throat, then drawing back teasingly with tight suction to toy with the engorged head. Hector was astounded at the sensation. When he looked down at the sight of the blond hair tumbling down toward his hips, the muscles in Achilles’ back and buttocks clenching and flexing as he moved, even the sight of his own wrists still held firmly in the other man’s hands, it overwhelmed him. He let his head fall back again in a wash of pleasure, only to grow hungry for the sight again, and look down to be overwhelmed once more.

It was as if the Greek wanted to make him lose his wits, the way he sucked and swallowed, first slowly, and then faster, more aggressively, and then slowing down again to hear Hector groan in wordless pleading. Finally he released his prince’s wrists and wrapped his arms around the spread thighs, demanding they open further while he sped up the maddening rhythm, until Hector’s back arched with wanton ecstasy. For a moment, he seemed to go blind and deaf. Then he slumped back against the rock, spent and panting as if he’d been chased down the beach by furies.

When he came to himself, he looked to see Achilles still lying between his legs, relaxed now, head on Hector’s stomach. Tentatively, Hector reached down to touch the golden hair. He knew no one with hair like this. He’d never felt such hair before, and he put his fingers in it now, lightly dragging them through the fine texture. His brow was knit with emotion as he let his fingers come up and carefully slide through it again.

Achilles felt the caress, careful as it was. He lifted his head and looked at Hector for a moment, and they both held very still, looking into one another’s eyes. Neither had a thought in their heads except a desire to imprint the other’s image upon their minds. The warrior found that looking up at his prince, at the slope of the strong shoulders, the sweep of the neck, the dark curls and deep-set eyes looking down at him, was hypnotic. The submissiveness of his own pose was a deep pleasure, and to gaze up at Hector as if offering homage… it felt like peace. 

_But I was not built for peace. Was I? _Achilles slowly withdrew and pulled himself to his feet, cradling his own erection. He was covered in sand, and without a word, he turned and walked into the water to rinse himself off. Eventually the water cooled him and let his excitement recede to calmness. 

Hector was left on the beach in some confusion. Was he expected to return the service? It didn’t seem as though… Achilles walked away without a word and stayed in the water for some time. 

When he finally emerged, he gestured to their clothes. Hector went to his own and found they were mostly dry, and so donned them. Achilles scooped his up and walked naked for a time, letting his body dry until they neared the beach fronting Troy. Where the land lowered and the rocks grew fewer, and the fishing boats were up on the beach, or anchored just off the shore, he pulled the tunic over his head and walked on, still carrying his small clothes. 

Approaching one of the fishermen, Achilles engaged him in brief conversation. Hector hovered well back until he’d finished, and then, following the Greek’s beckon, he accompanied him back to the gate. Once inside, he motioned for a gate guard to bring the prince’s chariot to take them back to the palace. Hector allowed himself to be directed passively, and when they reached the palace, Achilles gave him a brief tap on the arm with the back of his hand. 

“After lunch, dress for sword play, and bring your heaviest shield to the place beyond the vineyards.” 

Hector didn’t reply, but his face spoke no rebellion, only the uncertainty of a man who is no longer sure which way is up. He nodded, and retreated to his bath, and Achilles went… well… Hector didn’t know. He disappeared without explanation, and Hector accepted it. But he was concerned that he accepted it. 


	17. Transference of Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector is falling under Achilles' control, and he doesn't like it.

In his hours of respite, Hector made his usual rounds and found to his chagrin that Achilles was right about him: he re-checked stocks that he already knew the count of, walked the wall and look-out posts that he already knew the status of, and in sum, compulsively surveyed his domain—his father’s domain—until there was nothing left to check. He also found that he did not want to face his wife’s worried, questioning eyes. When he ran out of things to check, he ended up haunting the garden, and then wondered why he was there. Anxiety gripped him, as if he’d lost his wits and when they returned, he was in the garden and didn’t know how he had gotten there. It wasn’t what had happened, but it felt a bit like that.

Achilles did not appear at lunch, so Hector ate enough meat to sustain himself and then, following the directions given him, collected the gear he’d use for training with his men and went to the spot behind the vineyards.

The warrior was waiting for him, similarly attired, and with the two leather-bound swords. 

“This is your heaviest shield?” He asked, as soon as Hector approached. At the prince’s nod, he held out his hands to take it and weigh it in his grasp consideringly. “But it isn’t the one you fought me with.”

“No.”

“Good.” Achilles returned it and picked up his own. Then he handed one of the leather-encased swords to Hector, who held it in his hand with a puzzled mien.

“How is it so heavy?”

“Sand.” The Greek said shortly. “Now. Let’s see if your endurance has improved since I relieved you of all that hair.”

Hector shot him an edgy look from under his brows. “And why did you?”

Achilles grew very still and stared at him with that blankness in his eyes that most made him look like a madman, or an animal. He didn’t know why he’d taken Hector’s braid, and when Achilles didn’t know something, the fact of not knowing nearly paralyzed him. Most who saw this were of the opinion that Achilles simply disliked saying, “I don’t know.” The truth was, not knowing was such an unusual event, he didn’t know what to do, and giving voice to explain it to others was the furthest from his thoughts. The moment stretched on. Hector was sure he’d given offense somehow, but refused to apologize or quale. 

Finally Achilles stirred. “Enough talk,” he said, and attacked.

Hector, tense already, met him instantly with his customary commitment, and they sank together into a state of mutual concentration and focus that made a violent dance of their clash. It was clear to them both from the outset that Hector’s improvement was immediate and startling. For one thing, his initial deadly marathon with Achilles outside the city gate had shocked his body into a state of emergency preparation, and the stressed muscles had responded to the challenge, and improved themselves with vigor. For another, he was no longer completely unfamiliar with Achilles’ style, and the prince’s strong point was responsiveness. In life, his role was to see and respond to that which others needed. It was no different in fighting. What Achilles needed was a worthy opponent. Unconsciously, Hector dedicated himself to becoming one, and threw his body into each clash of the shields, each swing of the sword, with a devotion excelling even his best efforts from life before Achilles.

However, two runs on the beach and a few sessions were not enough to compensate for the unaccustomed heaviness of the wrapped swords and the thick shield. After several minutes of wild combat, Hector began to tire. 

Achilles backed off, pleased.

Hector lowered his sword and shield, shoulders aching already.

“You are improved. But your form is still weak, and you have no lunge. Lunge!” Achilles instructed, and executed a perfectly controlled lunge with his powerful legs.

Hector did as he was told, but his legs were longer and thinner, and it was not a familiar pose. The warrior made him do it again and again, holding the pose until his legs trembled, and then decided it was time for another bout. Achilles battered him, determined to force him to his knees, and once again, automatically, Hector became the man who refuses to admit defeat. He parried and blocked until he could no longer lift the shield. The shadows of the afternoon were long before Achilles backed away, chuckling, at the staggering figure before him.

“I stop only because I don’t want to carry you back,” he said.

Hector lay down in the grass, panting, and dropped his gear. He lay until his breath returned, and then, just as he was beginning to feel content, an odd sensation came over his chest, like a pressure. _Troy is doomed,_ said a voice in his head, not loud, but soft, like the echo of a sigh. Blinking, alarmed, he directed his eyes toward the Greek, who was looking down at him with a crooked, boyish grin and lazy blue eyes. The premonition continued to communicate itself to him. He got no sense that fate was influenced or guided by either him or the warrior, that they were leaves carried on a river, and that the vineyard around him, the olive trees, the columns and balconies, the courtyards and fountains, all were doomed somehow. Were already gone, and he was living amongst their ghosts. 

He sat up slowly and looked around, not attending to Achilles’ presence for once. _All this may be gone soon, _he thought in dread. Then the feeling passed, and he was merely a tired man sitting in the grass late in the afternoon.

“Come,” Achilles held out his hand, “My Prince. If you please.” He smirked.

Hector took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

****

At dinner, Priam turned to Achilles for a report on the progress of Hector’s training. 

“Well enough,” Achilles returned equably. “Skill he has, it’s endurance we’re building, and it takes some weeks.”

Priam asked a few questions on points of particulars, and Hector listened as the two men discussed him over his head. _Horseflesh, _he thought again, and looked at his father with plaintive eyes, wondering why he didn’t ask Hector himself how the training was going. When the old king finally turned a proud and approving eye upon his quiet son, Hector felt strangely empty. Usually, such a look was the food of his soul. Now, it seemed like he had swallowed something his body could not digest, and it merely sat there.

It took a moment before Hector realized that there was someone missing from the family dinner. “Where is Briseis?”

Paris and Achilles also turned their heads, as if the empty chair had suddenly appeared to them too. Helen spoke, which made their heads swivel again, for she was usually very reticent when in public. “She has returned to her sister’s household.”

An awkward silence fell. Such a move seemed to suggest a misalignment in any understanding she might have with Achilles, but Priam smoothed it over. “In times of tension, men must focus on their responsibilities. It’s fit that women remove themselves to the safest, quietest place that is appropriate for them.”

Hector turned his head to look at his father again, not at all fooled by that politic statement. The family had absorbed Achilles’ lack of serious intent toward Briseis. To salvage her pride and any possible remnants of her reputation, she had removed herself from his presence. Now began her social rehabilitation, to form in the mind of the public the idea that while she had been so fortunate as to be protected, while a prisoner of the enemy, by a general cognizant of her position and family connections, she was now reinstated to her rightful place, and had no especial relationship with him. 

What this said to Hector was that in the space of less than a week, Priam had gone from believing that Achilles was their ally because of his love for Briseis, to believing that Achilles was their ally merely out of his dislike for Agamemnon. This did not increase Hector’s faith in his father’s perceptions.

When dinner was over, Achilles drifted toward the gardens, and looked back at Hector, waiting until the prince met his eye. He gave a commanding tip of the head, a subtle gesture that still said clearly enough to Hector that he had been summoned. Eyes downcast but still moving, as if searching his internal mechanisms, Hector obediently followed. 

Helen watched them go. It was interesting to watch the struggle between Hector’s pride as a first born, and a prince, against his natural obedience and respect for authority. And unlike Andromache and Hector, Helen did not regard Achilles as foreign. She and Achilles were the outsiders, and as far as she could tell, neither of them wished for the fall of Troy. Therefore he did not seem threatening to her. He simply seemed like a master of sorts, and she had a ringside seat at the arena where he was at work taming a prince. She glanced at Paris and saw him watching too, but with a bit of envy in his eye. It now seemed to him as though he had two older brothers, serious warriors both, and that they preferred one another’s company to his. _He wouldn’t look so envious, _Helen thought,_ if he understood._ She wouldn’t be the one to tell him. She’d long learned that it was unsafe to interfere with the delicate mechanisms of other families.

Achilles waited in the garden, watching Hector slowly approach. He was wearing his paler robes tonight that fell to the ankle. His gait was as even and steady as ever. Even in defeat, even lost in thought, even exhausted, he held himself. It wasn’t the stately dignity of Priam, who was aware exactly of the image he projected. It was the walk of a man following a path, and determined to do it correctly. Why should he, Achilles, a man who walked no path, a man who made his own path, be in thrall to this tame domestic prince?

He thought back to their combat games of the afternoon, the vigor and fierceness of Hector’s fight. How did that man live inside this one, and without apparent struggle? There was no sign that the bloody fighter within was aching to escape the civilized, obedient servant of the kingdom. He killed without hating, he served without wanting, he obeyed without agreeing, and he loved without expecting even something so modest as cooperation. Achilles continued to stare as Hector drew abreast of him. Who was he? And why did he make Achilles want to lunge at him?

Hector raised his eyes and Achilles looked into them, hoping to see something new, some new awareness or emotion. He did, although it wasn’t what he was hoping for. He saw fatalism. He’d hoped for… fear? Anger? Defiance? Love? Something he could know was provoked only by him. Yes. He looked into Hector’s eyes and wanted to see only himself reflected there, but instead he saw Priam and Paris, Andromache and the boy, the city walls and the horses in the stables… a wave of something resentful and predatory welled up inside of him.

“Come to me tonight. I’ll be down at the pool. When you come, if you see candlelight I am already there, so draw the latch behind you.” 

Achilles waited to see if Hector would resist. Hector simply stood there, his eyes pained, his arms limp at his sides. He saw no defiance, and so moved past him to go to the guest quarters. He had candles to gather, oils and cups. His cot and blankets were already down there, having been dragged in the wee morning hours the previous night. It was the only place in the palace that seemed to the warrior to be secret, private, and secure. 

Hector accepted his summons. He had a sinking feeling that if his father knew the demands Achilles was making to cement their alliance, he would turn a blind eye and continue to promote their “friendship” in the name of the safety of Troy. Achilles had been right about this, Hector thought. It made his heart heavy in his ribs. And now, Hector had an assignation to carry out. He retreated to the most private anteroom of his chamber to make himself as ready as he could. While he had never participated in the sorts of carnal pleasures the young men of the day sometimes collaborated in, he understood the nature of it. In his mind, as he cleaned himself, he heard himself say, “I am not a whore,” and Achilles’ reply, “Oh, you certainly are.”


	18. Night with Achilles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector goes to Achilles because, what choice does he have, really?

Hector waited until the palace was settled and his wife and child were asleep. Then he rose, wrapped a soft swath of linen around his hips and over his shoulder, and made his way down the passage, through the colonnade, and to the pivot door that led down the steps to the pool. The air was sweet and mild. He caught the scent of the garden as he passed it. Though it was dark, and the moon was waning, Hector knew his home well enough to make his way without a candle. 

When he got to the top of the stairs, he stood for a moment, excitement low in his gut, shame high in his chest, and confusion rolling in his mind. Then he shook his head slightly, as if to say he disagreed with this fate, yet had no choice but to descend the stairs. He latched the door behind him and stepped down the cool marble steps carefully. 

On the ground floor, he looked about to see candles placed in each corner of the cavernous room. It wasn’t the romantic placement intended to light a beloved’s path to a waiting bed. It was a warrior’s placement intended to make sure no dark corners could hold a threat. The lights threw shadows around the pale columns, and reflected off the surface of the dark water, which looked bottomless in the night.

“Back here,” he heard, and turned to find that in a corner beneath the stairs, Achilles had a cot with blankets, candles, wine, water, and several jars about. It was more just a comfortable spot for a sexual tryst; he had set up camp here, and was sitting in the midst of it, leaning against the wall, one knee drawn up, waiting. “I wanted a place that no one could sneak up with a knife while I’m sleeping,” Achilles explained blandly. “Not everyone agonizes over each decision the way you do.”

Hector approached, and then paused by the nearest column, absently placing one hand against it lightly, as if for balance. Achilles saw that the look on his face was absolutely the same as the day he’d faced him outside Troy’s walls. Whether Achilles was threatening to kill him and damn him to an eternity of blindness in the afterlife, or merely to degrade him in secret in this life, his manner was the same. Caution, concern, a trace of stern disapproval, and the rest was fatalism. And he, Achilles, legendary warrior, killer of men, had actually draped a swath of blue cloth around his hips rather than wait naked purely out of consideration for the prince’s delicate sensibilities. He waited for Hector to speak, but he merely stood there, waiting.

“It seems your duties never end,” commented Achilles, blue eyes fixed on his prey, wanting some sort of reaction. 

Hector’s lips tightened and his eyes became more stormy. Then his head lowered, just a bit, and Achilles smiled. There was the bull.

Hearing no directives, the prince finally came and knelt on the cot, his eyes moving around to note the items at hand, and finally he raised his eyes back to the other man.

Achilles sat forward, picked up a clay jar large enough to fill the hand, and removed the top. It was full of a thick, oily ointment that smelled of spices. “This is daily, but it’s been weeks. Work it into my back,” he directed, and turned to present the long, smooth plane of muscles. Hector blinked in surprise, but took it quietly and scooped some oil out to rub into the warrior’s skin. His gut held mild unease, but he commenced.

After a moment of obediently applying the oil, he said, “You could have told a servant to do it.”

“I don’t let servants touch me.” Achilles stated firmly.

“Well, who did it before?” Hector asked without thinking.

There was a long silence. Hector continued rubbing, waiting. Suddenly he realized, and his hands slowed as startled understanding filled his mind. He drew in his breath and then his thoughts began to tumble. First was sorrow at the realization that the young man he had killed had meant far more to Achilles than he had known. It was not just outraged family pride that had brought the warrior to the walls of Troy that day. Hector’s hands became more gentle and caressing, although he wasn’t aware of it. He felt the responsibility and regret, and an urge to communicate it somehow. When he imagined what his companion might have meant to Achilles, there was even a wild urge to move closer, and put his brow to the other man’s shoulder, and beg forgiveness. But he stifled that urge. He had nothing to apologize for. This man had come with an army to enslave his city. Hector was defending his city against their attack. That the attacker was apparently now satisfied with merely enslaving its prince was—

Then a new thought occurred to Hector, a horrific one. If Patroclus had been his love, would he be content with making his lover’s killer into his private concubine? Wouldn’t he be far more likely to want something more equal in pain and loss? Hector’s hands slowed to a halt. Achilles may have well decided that killing Hector in battle was simply not enough. Now he was inside the gates. He could disable Hector down here by the pool, walk calmly up the stairs, and kill every member of his family, one by one. Father. Brother. Wife. Child.

Achilles was also brooding. He heard Hector’s question and the answer presented itself in his mind, followed by a series of memories that left him with no desire to speak of it. He felt the alteration in Hector’s hands when the truth hit him, felt the shock, and then the wordless apology. Then he felt another change come over the prince as something else occurred to him, and he turned his head to see Hector grow very still and raise his eyes to him in terror. Achilles tensed and turned gracefully. That was the look he’d craved the morning outside Troy. Seeing it now made him agitated, but with what emotion, he did not know. 

Hector glanced around and his eyes widened still more. Suddenly, he lunged across Achilles’ arm, pushing him roughly to the side, and snatched up the knife lying near the edge of the cot.

Moving faster than the warrior could have given him credit for, the prince threw the knife into the black pool and then scrambled away from him to freeze in an undecided pose. Neither of them moved for a moment. Then Hector considered the other weapons at the Greek’s disposal. His sword was upstairs in the guest quarters, and Hector’s eyes turned upward as he mentally traced the locations of his loved ones. 

After a moment Achilles caught up with Hector’s thoughts. “I don’t kill women and children, or old men, in their sleep.”

Hector stared at him, unconvinced. 

Achilles waited for him to get over his fright, but the prince continued to regard him with fresh fear, and look about him as if weighing outcomes and possibilities, all of them tragic. 

Finally the Greek grew impatient, and spoke sharply. “I never lie. Lying is beneath me. When I tell you that you and your family are safe as long as I am given the obedience you owe me, this is as solemn a vow as I will ever make. Now come here.”

Hector moved reluctantly back onto the cot, but he was clearly far more uneasy than he had been before his realization about Patroclus. 

Achilles removed the linen wrap from Hector’s shoulders and hips, baring him to the candlelight. “Lie down. Face down.”

Hector subsided stiffly down, hands up near his head, fingers moving slightly as if he wanted to grab handfuls of the blanket beneath him, but was refraining. The blond took a moment to run his eyes over the length of his prince and admire the pale, toned flesh. Then, with a secret smile, he delved into the oil and rubbed some briskly between his hands before leaning over and applying it to Hector’s back. He felt the man twitch slightly under his hands, like a horse touched unexpectedly. 

“I’m going to show you how to do it, and after this you can make yourself useful to me in the evenings,” he said, partly to reassure the prince that there would indeed be other evenings, and he would be alive to experience them. Then he leaned into his task and massaged the muscles that he knew must be aching._ Imagine, thinking someone was planning to attack, and merely throwing the knife into the pool._ Had the situation been reversed, Achilles would have buried that knife to the hilt in his would-be assassin. But as ever, the Trojan prince fought only enough to repel an offensive. A thought occurred to him. “Was it your idea to attack the beach in the early morning hours?”

“No.”

“Priam.”

“Yes,” that was very quiet.

“But did you agree?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Achilles pressed.

“I knew it would unite you all again.”

“But no one listened to you.” He felt the muscles under his hands grow tense again. “What?”

Hector rolled over and gave him a serious look. “No matter who of us you want to blame, remember that you attacked us. We have only tried to defend our home.”

Achilles grew bored with the entire topic. “Enough.” He pushed Hector back down and dug his fingers in hard, hearing the rumble of a faint, low moan in response. He rubbed the prince’s shoulders and back thoroughly, and then worked his way down to the buttocks, and watched the fingers buried in the blankets begin to flex nervously. 

At length, he left off and wiped his hands on blue cloth around his hips. Beneath it, he was hard and ready, but there was still some preparation to be done. Hector was a husband and a father, but Achilles was certain that in some regards, he was a virgin still. This was a pleasant thought. It meant, however, that some care must be taken. He had no intention of humbling Hector through pain. 

Reaching for a smaller clay pot, he opened it and showed it to his prince, who turned his head to watch his movements carefully. “Smell,” he offered, and then dipped his fingers in, coated them, and then slid them between those well-oiled buttocks. The prince drew his breath in sharply, realizing that the moment had finally come, and it was as he had worried it would be. Achilles fully intended to take him and debase him like a bed slave.

He felt the fingers touching him at the edge of his opening, where the nerves were sensitive and quaking. They explored and circled, and began a slow stroking, up and down, that made a wave of confused reaction ripple through Hector’s entire long body. Now Achilles reclined at his side and watched him as he caressed the warm cleft, his fingers buried deep. He was patient, working the slick flesh for long minutes, unvarying, lulling, tender, until Hector succumbed to the erotic sensations. His eyes were closed. His breathing was shallow and fast. He bit his lip to keep himself quiet, and buried his face in the blanket in shame, but his legs were relaxing and spreading of their own accord.

“Come, move this leg up,” Achilles directed in a whisper, and Hector obeyed wordlessly, allowing the oil-slick fingers to remove from his buttocks and dive down into the hollow by his hip to fondle the hard length pressed against the cot for a moment. The Greek watched the pleasure on his face with satisfaction. 

Now the warrior straightened and shed his last covering, and slicked up his ready cock. He mounted, and guided himself in with a sure hand to the slick opening he’d made ready. He pushed in little by little, enjoying the sounds of his prince catching the tiny protests in his throat and cutting them off each time he pressed in further. It was slow going, and Achilles reveled in every second of it as he watched his engorged flesh part the roundness of those oiled buttocks and pierce it.

Lying down full on his captive, he slid his hands up and down Hector’s ribs in loving caress, and then gripped the white hips and slowly pressed himself in to the hilt. A groan finally escaped his prince, but it was a sound of pleasure, and Achilles was pleased with it. He held still and let the other man adjust. He waited. He waited longer, pressing, and then he felt the slight hip tilt of encouragement. Teasingly, he pushed in deeper and held as the other began a frustrated squirm. 

Achilles nuzzled Hector’s ear, feeling the man turn his head to offer it up. When he’d waited as long as he could, the plunderer finally started his ride, slow at first, glorying in the sensation, gloating over the supine form beneath him. But as the pressure in his groin mounted, he grew rougher, thrusting into the increasingly pliant body beneath him. He felt the last bits of tension melt from Hector’s muscles as he rode him harder, wrapping his arms under the prince’s chest. Then, as they both moved faster and more frantically, Achilles slipped his hand back down to stroke the man he plunged into.

Hector came with a violent thrashing, his head thrown back, teeth clenched, muscles in his back bunching as he pulled the edge of the cot up off the floor. Achilles, face looking murderous, eyes bright with triumph, gripped the back of his neck and forced him back down to slam into him harder, sending him deeper into wild convulsions of ecstasy. Even after the prince went limp, the warrior fucked him powerfully, making him feel how completely his body was being penetrated and abused. He lay compliant and gasping until Achilles climaxed, pushing as deep as he could, gripping his vessel with fingers like metal claws. 

Their gasps echoed around the cavernous room, and the candle flames flickered, making the shadows shiver. Hector lay sprawled, his face hidden in the blankets, his mouth open as he panted. Achilles hunched over him like a predator on his fallen choice. His eyes were pale and unseeing, and utterly animalistic. It was fortunate that his prince couldn’t see him. 

But soon, as is always the case, they both calmed, and regained their breath and faculties. Achilles carefully dismounted and took up a towel to wipe himself with. He cleaned himself and checked for blood, not wanting to damage his new possession. Then he turned, not being squeamish, and cleaned Hector too, checking carefully that he hadn’t torn the man. At last, he fell to lie on his back at his prince’s side, and let one arm lie against the other man’s shoulder. 

They lay together in silence for a while, and finally Hector, his self-consciousness returning, turned stiffly to sit up to reach for the jug of water nearby and gulp it down. He felt thoroughly tired suddenly. The day had been a draining one. He gathered his linen about him.

Achilles let him clothe himself in silence. He wanted very much to sleep with Hector in his arms, lying on top of him, the curly head close to his own. But the prince was still given to attacks of fright, and it wasn’t safe to sleep next to someone who was convinced that his lover meant to murder him. 

He rose to follow Hector up the stairs, however, and when the prince looked at him in consternation, wondering what he was about, the Greek explained patiently, 

“I have to bolt the door after you leave. I don’t like to sleep unarmed, and some idiot threw my knife into the pool.”

Hector looked away, inhaled, and then left in the same silence with which he had come.


	19. Andromache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector returns to his bed after his ... services to Achilles.

Andromache slept lightly, curled toward the basket her son slept in. She knew her husband had slipped away, and she had intended to lie awake until he returned, but she’d not slept well since Achilles had taken a personal interest in Hector, and was now operating on the edge of exhaustion. She dozed until the wee hours, when she felt the warmth and movement of her husband finally returning to bed.

Turning, she put her hand on his chest and pressed her face to his muscular arm. Suddenly, she came awake. He smelled like Achilles—this she knew from the tense and nerve-wracking dinners she’d endured with him only an arm’s length away. He also smelled of sex. She scrambled up and stared at him in the night, her lips parted with shock. 

Hector saw the realization in her face and his eyes were more pained than she’d ever seen them, but he offered no explanation. He just lay, his eyes pleading for a moment. Then he directed his gaze toward the folds of silk that draped from the ceiling over their bed. There was a long moment of silence. 

Andromache turned and sat, drawing her knees up, staring out at nothing. Her mind was replaying all she had seen of her husband’s interactions with the mysterious brute who had invaded their lives. She saw the times he’d watched the man with trepidation and mistrust, and the smirking stares the Greek gave him in return. She knew for a fact that he wanted Achilles gone, and she’d watched his father override him again and again. She saw him leave for “training” with resignation, and return exhausted. She’d heard him thrash and protest in his sleep several times since his first frightening meeting with that man at the sacked temple of Apollo. Now he came with head bowed to bed, smelling of Achilles.

She turned to face him. “You have no choice, have you?” She said wonderingly. 

Hector brought both hands up to his face and covered it for a moment, and then let one fall away, keeping the other to curl into a fist over his mouth. He shook his head “no” and couldn’t meet her eyes.

His wife drew in a breath of pain and suddenly embraced him, putting her long, slender fingers into his curls and stroking them in sympathy. She knew many a woman turned into a commodity by her husband or father to barter for riches or peace. But to see it happen to a man… a good man… it shocked her. It hurt her heart to see his eyes like this, and her compassion went out to him. 

Hector burrowed his face into her slim form, and inhaled her flowery scent. He was pathetically grateful for her understanding, and her effort to comfort him. It was rare that his loved ones noticed his sacrifices, and he’d grown to accept this. The strong do not need the attentions of the weak. But at this moment, he felt weak as well, and they were equally helpless to do anything about it.

Deep in his mind, however, was the awareness that his brutish defiler made him feel more alive than any of his loved ones ever had, and that knowledge was the largest portion of his shame.


	20. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector is exhausted. Achilles is not.

When morning came, Hector could barely move. His back, shoulders, and arms were a knot of pain. The lunges had left his lower body in shock. The only parts of him Achilles had not injured were the areas he’d been most afraid for. Even his stomach muscles would not cooperate when he tried to sit. His wife smoothed his hair back with a cool hand and bade him rest. She would see to his breakfast. Hector closed his eyes again, having no spirit for effort, even for pride’s sake.

Achilles was pacing in the hall of the gods when word came to him that Hector was unable to leave his room. Without a thought as to the propriety of a guest invading the family quarters of his hosts, the warrior brushed past Andromache, who cringed away from him in distaste. She had procured fruit and cheese for her husband personally, and was making her way back to him with the meal in a bowl cradled in her long, slim arms. To her distress, the invader strode ahead of her--directly into the privacy of their inner sanctum--and made straight for the bed her husband lay in.

Hector had fallen back to sleep, and the Greek came to a halt by the bed and stared down at him. He’d never seen Hector asleep. The worried bend of his eyebrows was less pronounced, but even so, faintly visible, as if even in sleep his responsibilities weighed on him. He was pale, and the dark, close beard and the curls of his hair lay in contrast against his skin. The slope of his strong neck as it swept into his shoulders drew Achilles’ eyes, and he stood over the bed, head tipped slightly, arms limp at his sides.

Andromache slipped into the room on silent feet, profoundly uneasy to see the killer standing over her sleeping husband. In his basket, her child sat peacefully, gnawing on the small wooden horse his father had given him. Her gaze turned back to the Greek. He was like a statue, staring down at the bed. She waited to see what he would do, aware that she had no power to compel him to leave if he did not choose to.

After a moment, the warrior touched the sleeping face as if feeling the skin, and then lifted the blanket to place his hand gently on the abdomen that rose and fell with each breath. Then, to her shock, he peeled the sheets back further, exposing her husband’s helpless nudity, and slid his hand under the man’s knee to lift it up and peer at the mattress beneath. She took a few steps forward as if she would protest, if she had the courage. But Achilles lowered Hector’s leg and flicked the cover back over the sleeping form before turning to her. “Is he bleeding?”

“No,” she answered, taken aback.

He looked at the food in her hand. “He needs water, meat, and broth with salt,” he instructed, as if she were a servant. “No wine until tonight.”

Then he passed her and stood for a moment, regarding their private quarters. His gaze swept over every angle and wall thoroughly, noting the hangings and placement of art, inspecting the tables and chairs, even the columns. It looked as if he was trying to see what Hector saw each day. He went to the balcony and looked out, assessing the view thoroughly, as if it were important to know what part of the gardens Hector gazed on at night, how far the courtyard wall was from the window, and what trees and fountains stood in view.

Nervously, Andromache put the food down by the bed, and went to pick up her child. She held him close to her as Achilles left the balcony and seemed about to leave, when he saw the child in her arms.

This was the first time Achilles had seen Hector’s son. He came to them, inspecting the child impersonally, eyes flicking quickly over him, looking for any resemblance to Hector. Had he found it, the baby might have kept his attention longer, although Achilles in general had no interest in babies. Their wandering stares did not charm him. This one was slender and blue-eyed, and looked to Achilles as if he were more like his mother than his father. What little of Hector’s line appeared in him was the reedy delicacy of Paris and Priam.

“Did you know Hector’s mother?” Achilles asked abruptly.

Swallowing, Andromache shook her head, watching with alarm as Achilles took a finger and lifted one of the child’s hands. He seemed to check for something, found it lacking, and lowered it again. Then he walked away, having dismissed the child as not enough like Hector to be of interest. Just before he exited, he turned back to her again. “Water, meat, broth, no wine.” He repeated firmly, and stared at her until she nodded. Then he gave the sleeping figure in the bed another long look, seeming almost to sink into a trance for several moments.

Finally he departed. She sank down with relief on the bed, clutching the boy, keenly aware of two things: First, his interest in Hector was deep and intense. This was not a diversion for him; this was his focus, and things not related to his focus barely registered. The second realization was that Achilles wasn’t their guest; they were his captives. She and Hector were simply the only ones who were aware of it.

***

Achilles spent a restless day without his prince to torment. He went to the stables with apples, intent upon establishing familiarity with Darius. Paris saw his trajectory and waited nearby for the warrior to emerge. When he didn’t, the young prince finally entered and found him grooming the splendid horse like a common stable hand.

Paris greeted him and received a brief nod in return. He waited to see if Achilles would speak but when he didn’t, the Trojan finally presumed to begin.

“Do you think Agamemnon will attack?”

“Not like before. He doesn’t have enough men. He’ll want a quiet way into the city,” Achilles said, his attention still on the horse.

“Even knowing you are here?”

“Many kings have a way of staying back out of danger while their soldiers fall for their glory.” The contempt in his tone was clear.

“They must,” Paris said in a reasonable tone. “If they fall, who will lead?”

“Odysseus was not that sort.” Achilles gave the gleaming hide a final brush and emerged from the stable, finally looking directly at the younger man, who felt a thrill of excitement whenever the legendary warrior paid him the slightest attention. 

“One day, my brother will be king.”

Achilles grew still, and bowed his head, thinking _Hector, King of Troy. King Hector._ His breathing slowed. 

Not noticing, the young prince continued his thoughts. “When that happens, he cannot lead soldiers into battle any longer. I will have to do it. It’s me you should be training,” Paris said. “If Hector were king, and fell, I would have to act as king until his son is old enough…” Paris looked self-aware for a moment. “No one wants that. Not even I.”

Achilles lifted his head again, eyes distant. “Hector will not fall.” Then his gaze returned to the present. “And I cannot train you. You’re an archer. You are already a better archer than I am.” He gave one of his rare smiles, “I have never used an arrow to do anything but roast meat over the campfire.”

Paris fairly tingled with delight at the praise, but he persisted. “I need to learn to fight like a soldier.”

“I thought your brother trained you,” Achilles said, putting the brush on a nearby ledge.

“He tried, but I was always slipping away to some mischief,” Paris said with a winning smile.

Achilles did not look amused, although there was a time he might have, for he had been known to slip away for a bit of mischief himself, and not only as a youth. But now he had Hector in his mind’s eye. Hector who accepted any burden with stoic dignity, and rose to carry it, uncomplaining.

Paris sobered, realizing he had made an error in trying to charm the warrior. “But I would not do that now.”

Under normal circumstances, Achilles would have simply issued a stern refusal and turned away, unmindful of the reaction. But he’d found the young man’s budding hero worship helpful, and he was now—whether he realized it or not—guided entirely by the imperative need to maintain access to Hector. Alienating the men of the family would not meet this end. He held out his hand. “Wrap your fingers around my wrist.” 

Paris’s eyes widened, but he did as he was directed (unlike Hector, Achilles found himself thinking with amusement, who would stare suspiciously at him for a long moment, and make him explain himself first.) Paris felt the thickness of the bones in that wrist. Achilles pulled away, not roughly, and said, “Now feel your own.”

The young prince wrapped the same fingers around his own delicate wrist and understood immediately. 

“You were meant to be an archer,” Achilles told him. “Your brother and I were meant to be warriors. In time of battle, a king with two sons does not want them both on the ground, in the thick of the fighting. Hector leads the men, and you are on the wall with the archers. It has been a successful strategy.”

With that, he stepped around the prince and left the stables, leaving Paris looking thoughtfully down at his wrist.


	21. The Council Meets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector feels his position in his father's kingdom is slipping.

Achilles’ next mission was to explore the tunnel. He took a candle and taper and went to it, assured that Hector, even if he were on his balcony, would not see him. He didn’t want to raise another fright in his prince. He gathered his brown cloak from the guest quarters and then, moving quietly and avoiding the more public areas of the palace, he made his way to the gardens. Beyond the vegetable garden at the back of the compound he went, around the broken barrels to the unassuming door. He pried it open and entered, closing it behind him. If he were somehow coaxed out of the city without Hector, and then denied re-entry, Achilles had no intention of letting politeness stop him from returning to correct the matter.

Once inside the darkness of the concealed passageway, he lit the candle and began the journey. It was much longer than he had expected. He followed the rough-hewn tunnel for nearly an hour, impressed by the size of it, but displeased with the slow progress required to keep the flicking candle alight. 

At one point he found a place where the tunnel widened a bit. There was a pile of blankets here, and an empty wine flask. Achilles suspected he’d found where young Paris used to hide when he preferred not to be trained by his serious older brother. Near the blankets was an abandoned torch. He took it and lit it, setting the candle down and leaving it lit as a marker for his return. With the torch he was able to move at a much faster pace, but even so, it was another half hour before he saw an opening, larger than he expected, clearly a natural cave, covered with leafy green, glowing with sunlight beyond. 

Leaving the torch, Achilles wrapped himself in the brown cloak and stepped through the bushes to find himself in surprisingly familiar terrain. This was the way King Priam had led him on their outing to investigate the Greek ships. This was not a good development, Achilles realized. If the Greeks had the slightest hint that a secret way into Troy was in the vicinity, they would hunt until they found it. He turned back immediately, realizing that it was urgent that he not be seen. Even if he were not recognized, the sudden appearance—and then disappearance—of a strange man in the scrub and brush between the foothills and the coast would prompt any canny intruder to investigate. 

Making his way back into the tunnel and scooping up the torch, Achilles was profoundly grateful that Odysseus had withdrawn from the war. He was the cleverest of all of them. He would have already discovered that tunnel.

***

It was dark when Achilles returned to his official quarters. Before he bathed, he sent a servant to say he would be absent for dinner and then directed the fellow to obtain some meat from the kitchen for him to dine on in his quarters. He suspected Hector would not be at the table, and he had no interest in the rest of the family. 

After his private meal, he donned his simple but fine-woven tunic, and ambled from his quarters as if he’d been napping there all afternoon. To his surprise, he found activity in the hall where Priam was wont to hold council. The various generals and priests were there, and seemed about to take their seats around the formal reflecting pool. Achilles stepped in, pleased to see that Hector had also finally risen and bathed, and was formally dressed and seated with stiff dignity in his customary place. 

“Ah, there is our missing advisor,” Priam’s deep voice penetrated the casual din of conversation filling the cavernous hall.

Hector watched with weary fatalism as the men turned to regard Achilles with friendly eyes. They were clearly pleased that their pet lion was still padding obligingly among them. The council convened. 

“And so the question before us is, shall we open the doors and allow normal activities to return?” King Priam pronounced, and let the councilors begin their points for and against. They stood and called out their thoughts in turn.

“It would take a full day for the Greeks to return to our shore from their hiding place up the coast.”

“The fisherman would like it. They’re sick of having to wait at the gate each day to bring in their haul to sell.”

“But should the men with farms outside the walls return to their lands?”

“No, that’s not wise—“

“Yes, they can be summoned in time if we need close up again.”

“We can signal from the watch towers for them in case—“

“If we open the gates, it shows the Greeks we aren’t afraid.”

“We need to finish righting the temple of Apollo. We should do that, and make a sacrifice. Only then should we open the gate.”

Achilles noted that Hector was silent. Perhaps he was weary of speaking up and not being heeded by his whimsical father. He merely sat and watched it all, his deep eyes dark and troubled. 

He read his prince fairly well. Hector was indeed of the mind now that his voice was not particularly valued. His actions were his service. He was also distracted by a feeling, since he’d awoken from his long, exhausted sleep through most of the day, that he was not the same now as he had been before. He was a thing in the hands of others now, the primary Other being the man in the simple tunic, with the loose blond hair and the lazy smirk who—he could feel Achilles looking at him. Hector kept his eyes on the men who were speaking, looking politely at each priest and general as they stood.

Achilles, accordingly, stood. Respectful silence fell immediately, and Hector felt a slight sinking within him. But he turned his eyes with remote neutrality on the warrior, determined not to show any signs of being conquered.

“Agamemnon has no way of knowing that we are aware of his failure to depart.” Achilles pointed out. “Opening the gate would continue the illusion that Troy believes itself to be safe now. The less he knows of your understanding, the better,” that last was addressed to Priam. “I think you should open the gates. But we must have spies among the fishermen, and guards among the rocks. Meanwhile, there is no need for Troy to deplete its stores as if under siege. You should carry on as if confident of a return to normal.”

Hector wanted to disagree, not because the reasoning was not sound, but because he did not want to feel himself under the control of this man. But that would be mere reaction, and he schooled himself to consider the matter as if he were still free.

The prince waited for his father to turn to him for his opinion, and prepared himself to speak with calmness, but was disheartened when no such thing happened. Priam listened attentively to Achilles, saw the general agreement of the council and nodded at last. They would open the gates. Hector sat in dull silence as the meeting dissolved. 

Achilles withdrew to his customary place in the shadowy path between the pillars that led to the garden, and waited till Hector should look his way.

Hector was perfectly aware of him, but considered not looking. He could pretend to be oblivious that the warrior was waiting for him, and simply return to his quarters. But he imagined the man bellowing his name through the passage, just as he’d done outside the walls of Troy that fateful day. He stood painfully and turned to receive his summons, and obediently followed Achilles into the dark, scented pathways of the gardens.

When they’d reached a private spot, the Greek turned to watch his prince approach, to admire the even steps, and the posture that was somehow dignified and humble at once. When they were face to face, Hector kept his head up and looked at Achilles from his slightly taller height. 

The warrior brought his hands up and caressed the prince’s arms for a moment, and then one hand slipped around cup his buttock, the fingers sliding over the firm curve, “Did I hurt you last night?” He asked softly.

Hector glanced around the garden, resentment at being casually fondled clear in his eyes. “No.” 

Achilles gave the captured muscle a squeeze and let him go. “What did you eat today?” He asked, and it was clear he was checking to see that his orders were followed.

“Nectar and ambrosia,” Hector said defiantly, looking down at him again.

Achilles merely smiled slightly and waited patiently, blue eyes steady.

“Meat and broth,” the prince muttered, looking away again.

“Go now and have a cup of wine. Then meet me down at the pool. Don’t keep me waiting long,” he instructed, and with one final caress of a bare arm, he left the garden to go and light Hector’s steps down to the echoing marble cavern, to the cot by the pool. He reminded himself to hide the knife he’d swum down and retrieved that morning. He didn’t want to agitate his skittish prize again.

Moodily, Hector went to get his cup of wine. His status in his father’s house had devolved from head of his army and respected peer at his right hand, to that of a fine bit of horseflesh for his new general to ride. As he took his wine alone to a quiet portico to drink it by torchlight, a saddening thought occurred to him. Had he lost his father’s respect the day he lost to Achilles outside the walls of Troy? Hector brooded. He might have.


	22. Another Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles is by no means finished with his prince.

Hector descended the steps the pool slowly. His legs were still knotted with pain, and his chest and arms felt as though they should be black with bruises, they ached so much. Training by the legendary Achilles was no small matter. 

“Come,” he heard the voice urge from below, and he made his way around to the cot where his captor eagerly awaited him. Achilles presented him with the large pot of oil and then turned his back impatiently.

Obediently, Hector scooped out a bit of oil and began his evening duty of rubbing it into the sleek muscles. He thought the other man enjoyed it, tipping his head forward in a silent request to run his hands up to the strong neck, under the blond hair. But he wasn’t kept at this duty long. Achilles turned, seeming hungry for him, and took the pot from him. He unwrapped the cloth from his prince with eyes intent, and pushed him down on his back. 

Hector lay back wincingly, as even the muscles of his stomach were sore from the marathon of abuse the day before. Achilles reclined beside him, propped on one elbow, eyes roaming with possessive satisfaction over him. However unwilling the look in his eyes, there was another part of Hector that was already revealing its interest in the proceedings. 

Achilles smirked and scooped out some oil, and applied himself to massaging the arms and chest of his conquered enemy. His hands were slow and firm, and Hector could sense the loving concentration in his touch. He lay passive, his body responsive, but his mind uncertain. Why Achilles did anything was an increasing mystery to him. Then one hot, oiled hand slipped down to fondle his hardness, and Hector’s mind lost all capacity to do anything but marvel at the sensations that hand produced.

“I would tie you naked on an altar to Apollo,” Achilles murmured softly, watching Hector’s reluctant submission with pleasure, “tie you as tightly as a sacrifice, your arms behind you, your legs apart.” 

Hector lay listening to these shocking words, feeling the hand caress his balls firmly, and then slide behind them to stroke that unexpectedly sensitive skin before returning to his shaft. His mouth fell open and his eyes closed as Achilles continued to play with him slowly. “I would stroke you just like this, while you lay helpless and bound, too slow for release. I wouldn’t let you come, not for… “ his voice grew dark and husky. “Hours, perhaps. I would make it into a torture for you.” 

It was already a torture, feeling that hand make its repeated path from stroking, to cupping and fondling, to slipping under to caress with increasing pressure, and then return, sliding up to squeeze and stroke again. The teasing went on until Hector finally brought his own hand around mindlessly to urge the other man to give him his release.

With a quick movement, Achilles caught the wandering arm and Hector found it pinned against his side. Then the warrior threw his other arm across his captive’s midsection and lay his torso atop him, pinning the other arm. Quickly, he curled his leg around one of the prince’s long limbs, and Hector found himself grappled into abject helplessness, not unlike the position on the altar that Achilles was dreaming of. The warrior’s free hand returned to pleasure him, and he groaned, able to feel every movement, but unable to see over the broad back and shoulders that pinned him. 

Achilles paused to dip his fingers into the oil again, and Hector’s eyes followed that hand until it disappeared from his view and attacked him again, stroking from tip to base, leaving to wander around and down, and then stroking back up again. Not being able to see or move made the sensations even more paramount as the teasing continued.

“Say I am your master,” Achilles commanded, and turned his head to see his captive’s face over his shoulder. Hector could see the curve of his cheek as he smiled, tauntingly, and see his eyelashes dip as his hand dipped too, down to torment the secret skin behind his balls.

Hector clenched his teeth and dug in the heel that he was able to move. He tried to curl his head and shoulders up off the cot, but Achilles just put more of his weight on him, and held him down, and continued to stroke, very slowly. Hector felt his release building, but Achilles gave him a tight squeeze at the base and choked it off. Hector’s groan sounded mortal, and the warrior grinned to hear it. 

Then he squeezed the shaft and held it still, allowing only his thumb to softly rub random patterns on the velvety, leaking tip.

“Say I’m your master,” he said again. “You should have heard me the first time, with ears like that,” he added.

Hector glared at him, but the tormenting touches made him close his eyes again.

“Say it,” Achilles commanded, waiting. He gave the flesh in his hands an encouraging shake, and even that was tantalizing. 

Hector bit down on both lips and Achilles started caressing again. “This can go on for hours,” he said conversationally, for all he himself was as hard as his captive. 

Finally, Hector slumped back and managed to grit out the necessary words. “You are my master—“ he said huskily, hating himself.

Achilles continued exactly as before. “Say it again.”

Hector repeated the degrading phrase, and Achilles slowed his torture yet more. 

“Say it again,” he said, and now he wasn’t smiling. His eyes were dark and burning. “Say it!”

“You are my master,” Hector managed, eyes shut.

Achilles now applied a firm, regular stroke that allowed the unbearable pressure to build to a piercing, delicious height, and Hector twisted in agonized relief as his seed shot into the other man’s cupped hand.

The warrior stared at the creamy liquid in his hand as if hypnotized, and then brought it down spread on his own hardness. Sinking wordlessly down until his face was buried in the hot, moist fur of his prince’s groin, he brought himself off with a few hard jerks and shuddered, and then remained where he was, face pushed deep into the dark juncture. He brought one arm up to slide under Hector’s thigh and wrap around it, pressing it to his head, and the other hand came up, found the prince’s arm and grasped it. There he lay curled, lost in a strange bliss.

Anyone coming upon them in the dim glow of the candles, having heard the words, “you are my master,” would have thought they must have been uttered by the muscular blond figure that lay curled between the taller man’s legs, his face buried submissively between them.


	23. In the Temple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Priam wants Hector to make a sacrifice to Apollo in the temple. Achilles... likes temples.

The next morning, Priam sought out his eldest son. Achilles had generously let his slave prince recover for a second day, and instead of training, bade him go about his usual duties. Achilles would accompany him. Uncomfortably, Hector went out, dressed in his heaviest blue tunic and the leather vest that covered it when he was meeting his generals and the men. He set about his normal routines with the golden presence just to his side, and slightly behind him, following him like a large, dangerous pet. Thus when Priam came to speak to Hector, he found him up on the wall going from watchtower to watchtower—with Achilles attached like an inscrutable shadow.

Priam stood in the shadow of the awning over his royal perch from whence he’d watched the armies clash. He raised one hand and Hector went to him immediately.

“Yes, Father.”

“I want you to make an offering to Apollo this evening,” said Priam ponderously.

Hector suppressed his irritation. “Yes, Father. I’ll do it in the hall tonight.”

“No,” the old king said, and pointed to the temple out on the beach. “We must be sure the temple has been put to rights, and tonight, an offering made. Archeptolemus has sent priests to see to the cleaning, but he seems afraid to go himself and make the offering.” Priam seemed about to say something else, but the piercing blue eyes staring at him over his son’s broad shoulder reminded him that it might be awkward to remind his guest that the Myrmidons had cut the previous priests’ throats. He looked back into the softer eyes of his son. “I’ve gotten word this morning that the Greeks have sent emissaries to the Lydeans. They may be trying to win them over, or foment some sort of discord between us.”

Hector’s concern was at once sharp and focused. “We’ve never had bad relations with the Lydeans.”

“No,” Priam agreed, “and we don’t want them now. We must ask Apollo for help in keeping our friends at our side. You must go. Go at dusk. I want to be able to see the smoke rising from the top, over the altar. I want to see the torches lit.”

Hector regarded his father sadly, wishing the old king did not put so much faith in these gods they all believed in, but never saw. “Shouldn’t we send an emissary of our own to the Lydeans?”

“Perhaps, soon.” Priam said dismissively. “But tonight… Apollo. See to it, Hector.”

Hector bowed assent. “Shall I take Paris with me?”

Priam appeared to consider it, but Achilles spoke unexpectedly. “I will go with Prince Hector. I owe an apology. I will go and make a sacrifice of my own.”

The king’s eyes brightened. This was sweet to his ear; that even the mighty Achilles would bow before the patron god of Troy! It also renewed his hope that this enigmatic creature might still be, in some foreign and unaccountable way, courting Briseis.

Had the king heard Achilles’ murmurings to Hector the night before on his preferred use of sacred altars, the prince thought uneasily, he’d want that Greek as far from that temple as he could keep him. But of course, Hector simply accepted his father’s decree, and was dismissed to return his walk toward the next watchtower.

Achilles was mostly silent on their rounds, his eyes sweeping the beach and the sea just as Hector’s did. He seemed to want to know everything Hector did, what he looked at, what he worried about, who he spoke to. But he asked few questions, and was not the type for pointless commentary. What questions he asked were brief and to the point, as were the prince’s answers. 

To Hector’s relief, Achilles did absolutely nothing that would raise a question in the mind of any of his men just what exactly was the nature of their alliance. No one observing would think they were anything but a prince and a warrior, setting out together to see to the safety of the city that one was born to rule, and the other seemed to have adopted.

Late afternoon saw them at the city gate on Hector’s chariot. Hector was dressed in ceremonial white and blue robes. Achilles was in his armor, even to his helmet, and carried a bundle, which, he told Priam politely, carried items from his own culture’s practices of worship. Too polite to inquire further, the king gave his son a kiss on the head and stood watching in satisfaction as the two chariots—one with Hector and Achilles, one following with two guards—left the courtyard.

When the four were crossing the sand toward the temple, the old king was mounting the steps up to his royal perch, to watch over the wall as they sped toward the distant temple. He was eager to see the torches lit and the smoke curling up. He was eager to hear a report on the cleaning and repair of the temple.

***

The sun was low when Hector and Achilles left the chariot to mount the steps of the massive stone temple. Hector bade the guards stay at on the sand and to not even step foot on the stairs unless there was a serious and immediate threat. But the beach looked clear, but for a few fishing boats that were pulled up out of the water for the evening.

Hector passed the spot where the golden statue had once stood. The priests had removed the beheaded figure and brought it back to the palace, intending to melt it down and recreate it again. For a moment he stood, looking around, thinking of the last time he had stood here, only a few weeks ago. He turned to see Achilles remove his helmet and stand watching him, just as he had done the first time they’d seen each other. 

“Did you know who I was?” Achilles asked him. It rather rankled that day, when he’d asked the prince just that, and the man ignored the question.

Hector looked directly at him, also remembering. “Yes.”

Achilles’ eyes narrowed. “You’d heard of me? You came after me even knowing?”

“It was my duty.” Hector said flatly.

Achilles’s full lips quirked; it was clear what he thought of duty. He turned and removed his sword and shield, setting it all down near the feet of a nearby statue. He removed his armor piece by piece until he was in his comfortable tunic again. Then he took up the bag he’d carried and walked into the temple, glancing back at Hector much the way he had before, invitingly. _Follow me._

Hector followed, hoping the things the warrior had whispered to him the night before were merely erotic talk, and he wasn’t carrying a bag of rope. 

Inside the temple, the prince was pleased to see that most of the damage had been removed or set right, and the bloodstains scrubbed away. The altar was surrounded with fresh candles, and there was a large bundle of herbs wrapped and ready. The practice of “sacrifice,” as in the killing of an animal, had largely been abandoned in Troy, and the word now meant burning sweet scented herbs that perfumed the air and sent up a great deal of smoke, the visual impact of which was the goal. It was symbolic sacrifice, not literal.

Hector lit the candles, brightening the dim room, and without bothering with any prayer (for no father or priest were watching to see it, and Hector had little faith any gods watched either) he lit the bundle and watched the flames wrap around it. Achilles watched, noting the lack of ceremony. Now the room was glowing, and Achilles approached Hector with eyes lambent. 

“Over there. Lie down,” he murmured, reaching out to guide Hector to the cushioned stone bench the priests often sat on.

Horrified, Hector resisted. He wasn’t a religious man, but he did have enough respect for the temple not to engage in any inappropriate play inside of it.

“No. We’re leaving.” He tried to go past Achilles, but the warrior hooked an arm around him and dug the fingers of his other hand into the still-aching muscles of Hector’s shoulder.

“I said, over there,” Achilles said firmly. 

Hector refused to struggle in his ceremonial robes, but stood his ground in passive resistance. “I will not,” he assured Achilles, lowering his head to stare him in the eye. 

Without warning, Achilles slapped him across the face, just hard enough to sting. Hector was outraged. Men when fighting used their fists. An open-handed slap was how one disciplined slaves. Hector’s eyes went large and black and without hesitation, he slapped back with the exact same force, no more, no less.

For a long moment, there was no reaction. Achilles stared at him with eyes open wider than usual, rather like the day in the sand when he’d looked up from Hector’s lap and they had both seemed stunned with each other. Then Achilles lowered his head and drifted forward, placing the top of his head gently on the prince’s shoulder, like a dumb animal offering an apology. Then he undid the belt around his tunic, and Hector’s only warning was the bunching of the thick muscles of his shoulders. 

With lightning speed, the Greek wrapped the belt tightly around his captive’s neck, twice, and then dragged him to a column and tied him to it, his head and neck tight up against the stone. 

For a panicked moment, Hector thought he would strangle, and he clawed at the belt before realizing that there was some give to the material, and he could loosen it enough to breathe. He turned, trying to find the knot behind the column, but it was one of the larger ones and he couldn’t wrap his arms around it. 

As he struggled, Achilles reached into his bag and produced the rope that Hector had not been willing to believe he’d really carry into a sacred temple. He came to the trapped, struggling prince and wrapped the rope roughly around one wrist, dragging it back against the column. Hector resisted, but it was one arm against all of Achilles. He passed the rope behind the column and, though Hector yanked frantically, trying to pull the rope back around before Achilles could get around front to snatch it up from the other side, he wasn’t able to. The rope tightened, drawing his arm back, and he knew Achilles would grab his other arm momentarily.

In a desperate move, Hector grabbed a handful of blond hair right at the scalp and held him by it. Achilles froze, the rope one hand, and reached up to enclose Hector’s wrist with the other. Both men eyed each other, Hector in wild-eyed determination, Achilles with his head pulled back, eyes half-shut, lips parted. They seemed at an impasse.

Then Achilles released the hand that held Hector’s wrist and reached down to the white robes that covered him. Calmly, a slight smile on those lips, he began pulling the robes up, using his fingers to bunch and gather the folds in his hand, and draw them higher still. When Hector felt the cool night air on his thighs, his self-control left him and he released the hair to fight the hand.

Instantly, Achilles released the robes, seized his wrist, dragged it back against the cool marble and bound it with the same rope that passed behind the column. The entire struggle took place in near silence. No matter what outrage Achilles had planned, Hector knew he did not want the guards to see it. He twisted his wrists furiously, and threw his hips forward to shove his attacker away, but the man just pressed him against the stone and worked the ropes around his midsection as well, until he was content.

Finally, the warrior stepped back, satisfied smirk firmly in place. It faded for a moment as he felt his hair to make certain it was all still attached, shooting a disapproving look at the furious Trojan tied to the column near the altar.

Content that his prince was secured, Achilles now turned to the altar and took several candles. Bringing them to Hector, he set them on the various ledges around him, as if Hector were the god, and Achilles the acolyte setting up his shrine of worship. He stood back and looked at his prince, admiring the effect of the candles about his bound form. Then he went to the stone bench and heaved it up off the floor. 

Hector stared, realizing once again that Achilles’ strength was indeed almost beyond human. Why do I even try to fight him? He wondered briefly. Then the bench was placed before his knees and Achilles stepped over it to sit down and bury his face in the soft robes the prince wore. Hector clenched his bound fists helplessly. He couldn’t look down very well with the belt around his neck, but he could feel everything.

Hector stopped fighting. He knew what was coming. He felt the hands slip under his robes and run caressingly up his hips. He felt the cool night air touch his thighs and private places as Achilles lifted his robes above his hips and took into his hot mouth the erection that was already standing and waiting. He took his time on the bound prince, sucking leisurely, and stopping to draw back to look up at him with possessive satisfaction. Then swallowing him down again and pulling away, using his tongue to polish the head until it leaked and Hector writhed in silent pleading.

After several long minutes of this pleasurable torment, the warrior stood and put his mouth to Hector’s ear.

“Do you know who I am?” He whispered.

“Achilles,” Hector panted.

“Who is your master?”

“Achilles,” Hector repeated, knowing by now there was no outlasting him.

“Who do you belong to now?’

“Achilles,” Hector’s eyes were shut.

Finally, the madman sank back down and sucked steadily and deeply until Hector came, biting his lips, straining forward against his bonds until he nearly blacked out. Achilles watched his paroxysms with gloating eyes, and then took his knife from the bag and cut the knot at the ends of the belt around Hector’s throat so he didn’t choke himself. Then he carefully freed his prince, who sank lightheaded to his knees and let his head drop onto the cushions of the bench.

Achilles squeezed himself tightly for a moment, enjoying the painful pleasure. Then he let go, not wanting to feel the weakness of completion while Hector was helpless and they were out alone in the temple, but for two guards on the steps. He retrieved his belt—somewhat shorter now—and secured his tunic again, which had fallen open and slipped nearly off his shoulders. He calmed himself and lit a torch, and stepped outside to light those as well, so that they could be seen from the watchtowers of the city. 

The guards were sitting on the bottom steps, but leapt up when they saw Achilles, torch in hand. “Be ready. We leave soon,” he told them sternly, and then turned and strolled away to don his armor again, and tuck the lengths of rope back inside the innocent looking bag. 

Finally, it was time to help his shattered prince to his feet, and smooth his robes around him, and drink in the violated and resentful glare from those dark eyes. But no matter what he made Hector say in the throes of passion, when he was recovered, he was Prince of Troy again. He walked evenly out of the temple, ignoring Achilles. The warrior followed him, loving the regal resistance.


	24. Dinner With the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector's nerves are wearing thin. He's always been an obedient son... what good has it done him?

Hector encountered his master as he and his wife passed the guest quarters on their way to dinner. Achilles acknowledged the woman with the briefest of nods, and to his prince said, “Tomorrow when we run, we run south.”

“I refuse.” Hector said calmly, continuing down the hall, his darkest blue robes almost black in the torchlight. They were now the robes he wore, unconsciously, when he was most angry with his tormentor.

Achilles directed his flat blue stare at Andromache. “Tell him to do as I say.”

Hector stopped and turned, furious, inserting himself between his wife and the warrior. “Do not threaten my wife!”

The Greek merely stared at Andromache over her husband’s shoulder. “Make yourself useful,” he advised quietly. 

Hector lowered his head and lunged at Achilles, hands gripping the other man’s arms and grappling him to the stone floor. To his distant surprise, the warrior offered no resistance, and Hector sat on him and pinned both wrists to the floor. Andromache stood back, both hands over her mouth, eyes wide over them. She had never seen her husband lash out in anger.

For a long moment, Achilles lay smiling lazily in Hector’s grasp, hair spread on the floor. Then he slowly lifted his arms, even as Hector strained to hold him down. Both men’s muscles bulged with the effort, but the Greek prevailed, slowly straightening his arms until his hands pivoted out of Hector's grasp and came to rest on the prince's thighs. 

Hector drew a fist back, wanting to smash in that calm face, but Achilles just lay looking at him, waiting. The fist hovered in the air as Hector struggled to control himself.

Wanting this terrifying scene over, Andromache stepped forward and grasped her husband’s fist with both hands. “Please,” she whispered, afraid that at any moment Paris or Helen, or a servant, or someone would come and see this interesting tableau.

Hector rose to his feet, still glaring down at Achilles, who lay comfortably on the floor and regarded him intently. “Help me up?” He asked innocently, holding out a hand.

“No.” Snapped Hector, and strode away from them both.

Achilles curled up and rose to his feet without effort. Andromache stared at him. “Why do you do this?” She breathed.

“He must learn to trust me.” 

She shook her head. “How can he learn that when you—“

“How did you learn to trust him? You didn’t want to marry him, how did he earn your trust?” Achilles interrupted.

She regarded him warily. “I learned with time.”

He nodded. “We don’t have time. The Greeks will be back. Come, we’ll go to dinner,” he said, having just enough residual courtliness in him not to leave her standing alone in the passage.

***

Helen found herself looking forward to family dinners now. She and Paris spent most of their time in their quarters, being lovebirds, and she enjoyed his boyish beauty and enthusiasm. She listened to his wild dreams and charming confessions of former naughtiness with amusement. But when evening came, she dressed as if going out for an entertainment. Watching the three figures across the table, and the oblivious one at the end of it, was rather enthralling. 

“I’ve made a schedule for Prince Hector’s training that should be less disruptive to his daily routine,” Achilles reported to Priam.

“Ah?”

“Yes. If the Greeks are interacting with the Lydeans, I estimate a week or more before they are prepared to make any move. There’s time to build on what we’ve started.”

Helen looked at Hector. Yes, staring at his plate with tragic eyes.

“We’ll run each morning. Then he can attend his duties until after lunch. We’ll train with swords after lunch. When we finish, he’ll be free until we dine, and then we’ll consult after dinner on other matters.”

She watched Hector’s head lower, not in defeat but in bullish resentment, eyes turning hot. Oh, those _other matters,_ he clearly knew already what that meant. Things must be well underway.

Andromache looked more stoic than in the First Week of Achilles. She took a drink, eyes distant. Yes, she knew too. Interesting.

The warrior pointed his fork at Paris, “And I recommend you spend more time with the archers, not just in your own practice, but in supervising theirs.”

Priam nodded, and Paris found himself nodding too, but suddenly he felt as if it had been some time since he, or anyone else, had consulted Hector. “What do you think?” He asked his brother, in a rare moment of awareness.

Hector’s eyes lost some of their bleakness, and he looked as if he appreciated the notice. “It would help,” he admitted, “if I could leave the management of the archers to you.”

The brothers exchanged a look of filial understanding, and Achilles regarded it, feeling his own exclusion. He had no siblings, and was unaccustomed to sharing either duties or understanding. He kept quiet, but Helen saw the look of an animal who suddenly wanted to drag his dying prey back into the cave so no one else could touch it. 

Priam turned to Hector, “I saw the smoke rise,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

Hector nodded to his grey sire. “The temple looked as it should.”

The king looked at Achilles, “Were you able to make your peace with Apollo?”

“I hope so,” Achilles said, his eyes enigmatic. “I tried to make my devotion clear.”

“Devotion?” Hector put his fork down with a slap. He couldn’t prevent himself, his disbelief at the warrior’s crude joke at dinner overcoming his usual self-control.

“Hector!” Priam exerted himself immediately, not willing that his eldest son’s inexplicable hostility should alienate their valuable new ally.

Hector turned back to his father, helpless. Couldn’t he see?

“You are lucky,” Achilles said to Hector calmly, spearing a piece of meat. “To be able to hear your father say your name. Mine died long ago, and I miss him. I like hearing people say my name.” Hector locked eyes with Achilles, and watched him put a piece of meat in his mouth deliberately.

Helen looked to see if Hector would go mad. He looked perilously close to it. It was clear Achilles was taunting him with secret jokes right in front of the king. 

“Achilles,” Andromache spoke softly, and they all startled. Like Helen, she’d learned that a beautiful woman’s best bet in a royal court is to be lovely and speak little. “Where will you run tomorrow?”

“South.” He said flatly.

“North.” Hector bit out.

“They surely have spies. If we always run north, they will know that we know.” Achilles told him.

Priam nodded again. He seemed to agree with everything the warrior said.

“Listen to him!” He scolded Hector again, who sat back miserably in his chair. He felt like a child who had once been a favorite, and now was no more. 

The king lost patience. “I am done, I will retire.” He stood from the table and gave Hector one more exasperated look before marching away in full state. 

It was rare that the younger generation found themselves alone at the table. They maintained their silence until Priam was gone. Then Hector leaned forward to glare past his wife at his tormentor, eyes hot. “You are trying to drive a wedge between me and my father. I won’t allow it,” he told the warrior seriously, wanting to wipe that smug look off his face.

“You rebel against me because you cannot rebel against him,” Achilles said back immediately, and now there was no mocking look.

“I have no duty to rebel against my father--”

“But you do against me?”

“You know better than anyone!” Hector snapped. 

Paris opened his mouth to ask what that meant, and then suddenly his face went blank. If understanding was an ocean, Helen saw he was reaching the water’s edge. Hector looked at his younger brother and then flushed. Soon there would not be a person at the table who did not know.

Hector stood and threw back his chair. It was more temper than anyone had ever seen from him. Achilles leaned back, blue eyes just as hot, and the two men glared at each other. The warrior hefted his wine chalice and then he pointed silently in the general direction of the pool. It was clearly an order. _Drink your wine and then come down to the pool._ The women understood the nature, if not the details. Hector certainly understood it. Paris … felt strange, and suddenly bolted from the table. Helen followed him slowly. She could calm him, she was sure. Perhaps lead him away from the water’s edge. It wasn’t the sort of knowledge he needed, in her opinion. But she glanced back to see Hector stride out of the room in a fury, leaving Andromache alone with Achilles. 

When they left, Achilles turned to the wife. “Tell him if he doesn’t come to me, I’m coming to the both of you. That bed is big enough for three,” he glanced over her, “And you don’t take up much room.”

She vacated to her quarters instantly, and the warrior remained in full possession of the hall, picking at the grapes on the table and giving Hector time to clean and prepare himself, and have a glass of wine. And then report for his nightly humiliations. Achilles smiled slightly to himself. Hector’s anguish would be much more touching if the prince didn’t succumb so reliably, and with such passion.


	25. Concubine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hector accepts his fate.

“You must go to him,” his wife told him quietly, when she’d reached their quarters. He looked at her but she looked away.

“He’s separating me from my father.”

“He’s separating you from us all,” she said. 

“This is my punishment for killing that boy,” Hector stated tensely, but Andromache shook her head.

“No, I don’t think that’s what it is.”

“Then why is he peeling me away from my family like… like paring the skin from fruit?”

His wife sighed. “It’s what men do when they take a mate.”

He looked affronted. “We do no such thing!”

His wife spread her arms. “No? Where is my family? Are they here? Where is Helen’s?”

“Are you saying now I am the wife?” Hector was astounded to know this was a woman’s view of marriage. He paced for a moment. “I am Prince of Troy, I can not be taken from my city.”

“No,” she warned, “but your city can be taken from you.”

His stomach sank and he came to a halt, staring at nothing. His shoulders slumped. He looked at her face, her distant pity and more obvious unease. She, too, was unwilling to risk the wrath of their frightening guest. He wanted to judge her for it, but was his own reflection cleaner? He turned away and went to bathe himself before making the trek down to he who waited.

By the time Hector came to the pool, his rage had drained, and now he was simply sick with the helplessness of this situation. 

“Do you hate me yet?” Achilles asked as Hector knelt on the cot in the candlelight. 

“You want me to? Is that why you’re tearing my life apart?” Hector asked, refusing to look at him. Achilles pulled the sheet off of him and handed him the pot of oil. 

“I like my slaves naked,” he said, and turned his back. “Rub.”

Hector applied the oil in silence, rubbing it in briskly.

“Slower,” Achilles warned him. He heard the slow inhale, and felt the prince obey. “Your life needs tearing apart,” he added contemptuously.

Hector didn’t respond.

After a moment, he turned impatiently and pushed the prince onto his back, laying full on him. “Keep rubbing,” he murmured, and nuzzled the dark whiskers lovingly.

Hector embraced him and ran his hands up and down the sleek back while his captor moved on top of him, heavy and warm, and burrowing into his neck. He felt the pressure of the warrior’s hips, and his own burgeoning response. Then the Greek sat up on top of him, directly on the hardness, and brought Hector’s oiled hands to his own erection.

“Pleasure me. You know how, you’ve got one of your own. Don’t tell me you never have,” he added with a quirk of his lips.

Hector obeyed, once again. “I won’t tell you that,” he admitted with the smallest of smiles, and caressed the hot flesh.

Achilles stared down on him, remembering the first time he’d straddled him in the sand.

He closed his eyes in pleasure for a moment, and then leaned over him, placing one hand on his throat as he had that day, but much more gently. “Why didn’t you kill me? You had the knife.”

Hector shook his head. “I don’t know.” He sounded defeated.

“You should have,” Achilles murmured, and leaned in to kiss him. He’d never kissed him, he realized now.

But Hector turned his face away. “No… leave me that one thing, for my wife.” He said. Achilles stared down, the softness leaving his face. “Please,” Hector added. 

Achilles sat back up, angry now. Please, he’d said, when he begged for his father, when he begged for his wife. Begging for others, and never for himself.

“If it soothes your conscience to just be my whore, then fine.” He dismounted. “Turn over,” he said coldly.

The prince rolled over without a word, and drew his leg up obediently, putting one hand up near his face, as if shielding it. The warrior took the smaller pot of oil, opened it, smeared his fingers in it and plunged them between the waiting buttocks roughly, face dark. He wanted to thrust himself in like a brute, but found that he could no more do that to Hector than cut his throat.

Once he was in, though, Achilles rode him hard, snapping his hips into him without pause. He placed his hands on the prince’s shoulders to hold him steady so he could pound on him. But soon, emotion overcame him and he lay on his captive, and wrapping him in one arm and reaching down to stroke him with the other, and he slowed his pace more and more, until they both groaned with every thrust. If Hector thought he could provoke him into making it fast, to be finished with it, he’d soon learn otherwise.

When he’d wrung the prince out, made him beg and thrash and convulse, they lay breathing in satisfied silence, listening to the echoing drips of the pool. Hector said, “But do you? Want me to hate you? Is this why you’re here?”

Achilles put his face on Hector’s outstretched palm. “I’m here to keep you alive.”

Hector stared at him. “You came to kill me.”

“And then I realized I needed to keep you alive.”

“Why?”

Achilles sighed. “Briseis told me once, everyone who knows you, loves you.”

Hector doubted that mightily, but he kept quiet and listened.

“And now I know you.” Achilles said, closing his eyes and kissing Hector’s palm. 

The warrior fell asleep soon after, and Hector lay staring at the dark surface of the pool, sprawled, his hand still caught by the invader. That had sounded like a declaration, but he found it very hard to credit. Those who loved him, loved him because he was good to them, and took care of them. None of this was true of Achilles. That man had no reason to love him and at least one excellent reason to hate him. Moreover, he never lost sight of Achilles’ ego and desire for glory.

It seemed clear to Hector that while there was a slim chance the warrior had told the truth just now, it was far more likely that he was there to spy, or to obtain some advantage, or simply to tear the family apart in revenge. Or, finally…. He could simply be mad.

Hector rolled his head back to look at the blond head resting on his hand. He could simply be mad as a rabid dog. Only time would tell.

***

In the morning, they ran south, past the fishermen—dozens, now, trade was returning. Hector ran well, and did not fatigue as easily as before. When they reached the rocks, his eyes darted as nervously as they had before, and Achilles grew irritable.

“Look around!” He commanded with a fling of his arm, and while Hector moved carefully amongst the rocks, looking for would-be kidnappers, Achilles gave him a snort of contempt and stripped himself naked. He dropped his clothing on a rock and went into the sea, swimming like a dolphin.

When Hector finally admitted to himself that Achilles had not led him into a den of Greek kidnappers, he watched the blond swim for a while, and finally slid out of his clothing, with many a modest look around, and went cautiously into the blue water. His companion came to him instantly, his good mood restored, and drew him by the arms off of his feet, and dragged him through the waves, although never very deep. Hector tended to panic if his feet couldn’t touch the sand.

At length, they found partially submerged rocks near the shore they could sit on and let the waves come and lift them. Achilles stayed close to his prince, and watched him gaze around as if marveling at the sight and feel of himself in the sea. 

After lunch they went to the vineyards with the weighted shield and swords. Achilles drove Hector as hard as he pleased, and Hector fought back fiercely, determined to one day best his master. 

As they walked sweatily back toward the palace, Achilles said with a provoking smile, “You see how much easier it is when you obey?”

“I’ve always known that,” Hector remarked, looking up to the distant walls.

Achilles lost his smile, feeling that suddenly he had finally been categorized as merely another burden to bear. He’d told Hector to think of him that way, but it wasn’t so sweet now that it was at hand. His eyes narrowed. He’d wanted to conquer Hector, and now he had. Why wasn’t he satisfied? 

Hector moved away from him once they approached the colonnade. This was his designated free time, and he appeared intent upon spending it with his wife and child. Achilles watched him go and then went broodingly to the guest quarters. He dropped off the bound swords and prowled restlessly about the room. 

For a moment he picked up the severed braid and fondled it. He lifted it to his face to inhale its scent, but the scent was fading. Hector himself was the source of it, and his source was aloof from him. He put the hair back down, brooding.

Then he descended to the gardens and made his way around to the bushes from whence he could see Hector’s balcony. He was out there, holding his child, smiling at the boy with all trouble free from his face.

Achilles watched. Yes, Hector was adept at giving others of himself. He had struggled to incorporate Achilles into his life and still retain his dignity, his family, his pride… and apparently he had done it. The warrior found that he was not happy to have become simply another person who took from Hector. He was now on a level with Priam and Paris, and everyone else. He had wanted to rise to their level of intimacy, but all he had done was fallen to it. Disturbed, he retreated to the main hall. He would have to think on this.


	26. Envoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lydeans have come to spy for Agamemnon

Afternoon brought a small envoy to the gates of Troy, and word was sent up that the prince of the city-state Smyrna was there to consult with them on the situation involving the Greek king, Agamemnon, who was requesting their hospitality. They were guided to the palace by a phalanx of guards, and the royal family and several members of the council convened to welcome them.

Achilles made himself present. He had no doubt that Agamemnon had sent them to spy, and he meant to make absolutely sure that they returned with the information that Achilles was still very much present.

The long table was full of fruits and cheese for casual grazing, and Priam made certain the wine was plentiful. The envoy consisted of a cocky young prince and his uncle, and several advisors. The prince, whom Hector called Kadi, was clearly not a complete stranger, and the visit seemed at first an innocuous one.

Kadi reminded Achilles of Paris, but older, with more bulk, and far more challenge in his eyes. After they’d spoken of the invasion of the beach, followed by the unexpected withdrawal of the Greek fleet, Kadi finally got to what was almost certainly the point of their visit.

“Is it true the warrior Achilles resides with you now?” the visiting prince asked Priam, popping a grape into his mouth. The room grew quiet.

Achilles, who had avoided being introduced, but stood right behind the young man, said merely, “Yes.”

The Smyrnean turned and there was no doubt that he understood instantly who had addressed him. He took a step backward before collecting himself.

“They say you’re the greatest warrior who ever lived,” the prince said, but with doubt rather than admiration.

“Yes.” Achilles said without modesty or inflection. The priests and generals of the council smiled at each other, delighted with his unconventional ways.

“Is it true you are training Prince Hector?”

Hector shifted on his seat, and then schooled his face to neutrality. Achilles tipped his head and stared at the visiting prince, his face growing even less welcoming. “Yes,” he said firmly.

Kadi looked back at Hector. “Remember when we met to compete? How long ago was it?”

“Ten years,” Hector admitted, a bit of a smile on his face, his hand reaching up to rub his chest. 

Kadi ate another grape, and pointed. “I’ve been training too, you know. How about a friendly match? Let’s see who’s gotten old and who’s gotten good.”

There was a roar of general approval at the idea of an entertainment. Achilles and Priam both looked to the uncle who had arrived with the prince. He was a thin fellow with unpleasantly watchful eyes. He didn’t seem surprised at this spontaneous suggestion, and both the king and the warrior understood: this was a mission for gathering intelligence. The Smyrneans, whatever they might once have been, were now analyzing the situation to see: if the Greeks and Trojans clash again, who should we align with?

“Tomorrow,” Priam called, his deep voice carrying over the crowd. “You have traveled far today. Eat and drink, and tomorrow you may have your tournament.”

A general air of festival prevailed for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. In lieu of a formal dinner, Priam simply ordered food to be continually refreshed on the table. Some of the envoy seemed to have relatives in Troy, and the atmosphere, on the surface at least, remained friendly.

Achilles disappeared early, and Hector found himself looking for the warrior, but the lion could hide like a small cat when he chose. Late in the afternoon, Hector slipped away to go down to the pool and remove their clandestine campsite. To his surprise, when he got down the steps and went around to the back, it was already gone. A few candles remained, but other than that, there was no trace of Achilles’ belongings, or of Achilles.

It was late in the evening, as their guests began to drop off into the quarters provided for them, when Achilles finally reappeared to waylay Hector in the passage. 

“Come to my quarters. Just to talk!” He added, as Hector looked scandalized.

They entered and Hector could see that Achilles was firmly re-established in the guest quarters. The oil pots and blankets he was familiar with were on the bed, and his armor and training gear laid out as before.

Achilles rolled into the bed and then sat up, cross-legged. Hector sat down on the edge and turned, drawing one foot up. They both cast glances toward the hangings at the entrance.

“What do you know of this fellow?” Achilles asked.

“We met once before, a visit of diplomacy, just as I said. But his grandfather was alive then, and he was a sensible man. Kadi and his father have always been… more aggressive.” Unconsciously, Hector rubbed his chest again.

Achilles nodded. “I don’t like him.”

Hector smiled at him, and it was one of those rare, wide smiles that was usually reserved for his loved ones. It was beautiful. _I almost killed this man,_ Achilles thought in sudden horror. His eyes grew fixed.

“He’s not very likable,” Hector admitted, and looked at the training gear.

“He’ll want to contend with real swords,” he added.

Achilles nodded. “I’ll take care of that.” Then he rose from the bed and went around to where Hector sat. He put his hands on either side of the dark, curly head and bent to kiss him on the forehead, the way a father would. Hector looked up at him in bemusement, and the look went into Achilles like a blade in the chest. Not satisfied, he took up the prince’s hands and kissed them too, several times. 

Then he drew in a deep breath, and pulled Hector to his feet. “Good night, my prince. Go and sleep.” He guided Hector to the door with one hand on his shoulder, and Hector gave him a long look before retiring. It was very much like the look Achilles had given him the morning he lay in the sand with a rock in his hand, refusing to die. It was an admission of confusion, the sort of confusion that bodes a shift in fundamental perceptions.


	27. A Friendly Contest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kadi wants to test Hector's training. Very well.

The table was moved from the center of the hall to the side, and laden with food and drink, so the center of the great hall could provide the venue for the friendly little tournament between princes. Several royal families had invited themselves to watch, and a goodly crowd stood around the edges of the hall, many with chalices in hand. Some wagers appeared to be placed.

Kadi appeared with partial armor, chest and shield only, no helmet, arm, or shin guard. He swung his sword at his side, and waved at the ladies nearby. He cast a friendly leer in Helen’s direction, and Paris immediately stood taller and frowned.

“Where’s your brother?” Kadi shouted across the room at him.

“Apologizing to the gods in advance for what he’s going to do to you!” Paris shouted back, and there was a cheer of approval.

In a moment, Hector appeared from the gardens, making his entrance with a modest smile. He too wore his chest and his own shield, not the heavy training one, but carried no sword. Achilles came with him and positioned himself in the middle of the hall, making it clear he would be taking charge of the details of the fight.

In his hands were the two bound blades. “You’ll fight with these.” He announced. “This is no time for anyone to get a serious injury for the sake of sport.”

There was a general groan of disappointment, and one young man whose family was of some influence, called, “That’s for children.”

Achilles beckoned him into the center of the hall, and the lad went dancing in, capering for the squeals of the girls. When he was near enough, the warrior swept one bound blade out to his right and held the other to the boy’s right, and low. “Feel this,” he said, and the boy turned and bent a bit to feel the leather-covered blade. Achilles swept the other one forward and gave him a hard spank on the buttocks with it. The youth bounced up with a shout of pain, and stood rubbing his haunch and staring at the warrior in outrage as the crowd dissolved in laughter.

“It can still hurt,” Achilles told him, and then shooed him away. He retreated with a red face, still rubbing himself. The onlookers were in a jolly mood now. 

Kadi came forward and seemed reluctant to relinquish his sword. “I always compete with this. It’s not my battle sword, it’s not sharp, it’s… it’s my playing sword,” he said with a grin.

Achilles put down one of the training swords and called, “Throw it to me.”

Kadi hesitated, “You might drop it.”

“I thought it was just a playing sword.”

Kadi looked at him, his smile fading. Then he shrugged and tossed the sword to Achilles. It rotated in the air, and Achilles caught it by the handle. The crowd murmured in appreciation.

“Your turn,” Achilles said, and tossed the bound blade, giving it a rotation to match. Kadi caught it much as Hector had the first time, by the blade, with both hands. “That would have cut your fingers off,” he said, and behind him, Hector smiled in remembrance. “Want to try it with your play sword?” 

Achilles seemed ready to throw it at him. The people behind Kadi quickly got out of the way with nervous giggles. 

“No, no….” Kadi stepped back.

Achilles nodded as if to say he thought so, and went and gave the sword to a servant. “Hold this,” he murmured, and returned to the center of the hall. He turned to Hector, and they exchanged a look of perfect understanding. Then Achilles lobbed the other bound sword at Hector, giving it an extra spin, and Hector caught it by the handle. The crowd cheered and the two combatants came forward.

Kadi was still frowning at the sword. “It’s heavy.”

“It shouldn’t be, I took some of the sand out of it. Is it too heavy for you?” Achilles looked mockingly solicitous.

Kadi gave him a glance as if to say that he had just ascertained that he did not favor the Greek. 

Hector brought his shield around, amazed at how light it felt now. He hefted the bound blade and found that yes, it too was lighter.

The two men took their poses and placed their forward feet toe to toe, and Achilles put one hand on Hector’s shoulder, and one on Kadi’s. “Ready? Begin.” He let go and stepped back, and the contest was on.

Hector, accustomed to fighting with Achilles now, attacked. He tangled Kadi’s sword in his own and yanked up hard, and then followed with a charging thrust of his shield. To his astonishment, Kadi simply flew back a length, landed on his back, and slid across the floor. Hector stared at him in puzzlement. A moment later, there was a thud as Kadi’s sword hit the floor, somewhere behind Hector. The crowd gaped wide-eyed. 

Into the silence, Achilles called in a bored voice, “You dropped your sword.”

The crowd burst into laughter, turning to each other with joy. Hector looked over at Achilles questioningly. The warrior shrugged and grinned, arms folded over his chest. 

Kadi got to his feet, flushed and startled. Hector ascertained that he wasn’t injured and retrieved his sword, tossing it to him. He caught it awkwardly and Achilles called out, “Now you have a stump,” to the delight of the crowd. 

They went at it again, and the visiting prince was now on the alert, but no matter what he did, it seemed to Hector that the other fellow was pitifully slow and weak. He found himself lunging and slashing, and batting Kadi’s pitiful parries away. Backing Kadi into one crowd of spectators after another and watching them scramble to get out of the way became part of the fun. The women quickly tired of it and retreated to porticos and behind columns for shelter. Hector hammered Kadi from overhead, as Achilles had done to him to tire him.

In a matter of minutes, Kadi had thrown down his sword. “Very well, very well!!” He called out in some temper. He was panting. Hector was not. He looked over at Achilles again, who raised an eyebrow. _See?_ Hector nodded.

The princes divested themselves of their armor and grasped each other’s arms in a friendly peace, and Kadi, shaking his head in disbelief, made straight for the wine. “Never,” he said. “I have never…” then he drank. The guests dispersed, some for home, others for parts of the garden and courtyard. The day grew cooler and the rays from the sun turned the courtyard pink in late afternoon.

Priam watched the gaiety from his chair near the reflecting pool, thinking that there was something different about Hector this evening. He wasn’t sure what it was… his boy was still as modest as ever, as serious, as polite and courtly. His demeanor as he accepted congratulations was as attentive and grateful. He waited to catch Hector’s eye, to show his approval, but finally it came to him. Hector didn’t look to him for approval during the bout, or just after it; he looked to Achilles.

For a long moment, the old king just stared down into the pool, feeling bereft. He didn’t realize how much he’d taken his son’s pleading gaze for granted, until now, when it was not there. He felt a wave of exhaustion, and a bit of pressure on his chest. He was getting old now, he admitted to himself. He forced a smile when his generals approached to gloat with him about their prince. He nodded. But suddenly, all he wanted was his bed. He retired early, bidding good night to both his sons.


	28. Priam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ominous development

Achilles retreated early, weary of human contact. He relieved Hector of his armor as if he were a servant, and took it back to his own quarters. He sat on the floor beside his bed, quietly wiped down Hector’s armor, and placed it near his own. Then he sat and looked at it, and remembered what his father said. It was true. He found that he didn’t care. The prince had a goodness and decency in him that had conquered the warrior completely: conquered his thirst for revenge, for glory, even for control. 

He heard the footsteps behind him but didn’t bother to turn his head. “I thought you didn’t sneak up on people.”

“Clearly I don’t.” Hector said, sitting down on the floor beside him. They leaned back against side of the bed in silence for a moment.

“The faster they leave, the more certain I will be that they are spies for Agamemnon.” Achilles commented.

“They’ll have a tale to tell,” Hector smiled. Then he turned with a quizzical look. “Did you do something to his sword? Or mine?”

“I let the sand out of both of them, that’s all.”

“It was like fighting a child.”

“It usually is,” Achilles said wearily.

“Is that how it is for you?” Hector looked a bit disturbed, his dark eyes searching.

Achilles nodded. “Except for you, now. You are… better than a child.” 

They sat in silence, both gazing at their armor, together on the blanket. The warrior put the back of his hand on his prince’s arm in a casual caress. “Kadi is the one that left the scar on your chest.”

“He didn’t mean to. We were young.”

Achilles turned to look at him suddenly. “Did you both like the same girl?”

Hector blinked and then his eyes widened. “Yes. Yes, there was a girl, and we both—how did you know?”

“I know his type,” Suddenly he stood. “I don’t trust these visitors. Is there a bolt on the door of your quarters?”

“Yes,” Hector was looking up at him from his seat on the floor, his dark curls around his face and neck soft against the angular line of his jaw. It was bewitching, having Hector gaze up at him so openly, the suspicion finally drained away. Achilles drew his fingers along that jawline, catching his fingernails lightly in the short whiskers. “Lock your door tonight.”

“What about you?”

“I have my secret places,” Achilles assured him with a slight smile, his hand still on the prince’s cheek. He wanted to kiss him, but he decided to honor the prince’s one request. He knew now that he wanted to be more to Hector than even his father or wife. That meant not taking. They all took from him, and now Achilles was determined to give, somehow. Something.

***

The morning brought a violent change in the mood of the palace. The family were all still in their quarters. The servants were still blearily clearing away the food and scraps from the previous night, when one came to Hector, her hands wringing in anxiety. It was Danaus, the old maiden who had waited on his mother for years, and was now retained to help with Hector’s son. 

“It’s the king your father,” she whispered, clutching at his robes. “He can’t speak. He holds his chest.” 

Hector and his wife gave each other a look, and he handed the child to her. “I’ll be back.”

Hector entered his father’s quarters timidly. It was rare that he was invited in, and even the scent of the room was somehow unfamiliar. The herbs he burned for the gods, no doubt. He came to the bed and drew back the curtain. Priam was there, one side his face drawn down, eyes full of terror. He lifted one hand to clutch at Hector, and struggled to speak. Drool came from the corner of his mouth, and Hector watched in horror as Danaus took the sheet and matter-of-factly wiped it away. 

“I have seen it before,” she said sadly.

Hector took his father’s hand, and listened to his stammerings, but nothing could be made out. Finally he asked, “Are you hungry?” 

Priam made a face of disgust, and sank back in despair. He rested a moment, eyes vague, and then tried again to speak. It seemed he said “P-eh-eh.. P-ah ah.”

“Paris? Priest? Priest!” Hector detached his father’s clinging hand and withdrew. “Do not describe his state to anyone but family and priest. Keep the other servants out.”

Hector darted out of his father’s room and found the envoy from Smyrna preparing to depart after only two days. He sent a servant for Archeptolemus, and went to see the visitors as they loaded their chariot at the end of the courtyard.

Kadi’s uncle stepped forward. “I’d hoped to say goodbye to your father before we left.”

Hector tried not to show his anxiety. “He is very tired.”

“We could wait. We do not wish to be impolite.” The old courtier’s sharp eyes noted the hasty arrival of the priest from his suite across the compound. It was clear that there was something of urgency unfolding in the palace.

“You need not wait, he will understand,” Hector said, wishing them gone. Let them go and make their announcements to Agamemnon. They made their farewells then, and withdrew. 

Later, he found that the envoy lingered at the city gate for some time, waiting for a servant who had apparently been left behind, purely by accident of course. When that servant met up with them, he had heard enough to confirm their suspicions. The king was seriously ill.


	29. White Mare, Yellow Flowers

The family did their best to conceal the extent of Priam’s decline, but to Paris and Hector both, it was clear that he was unlikely to return to the man he once was. They hovered in his chamber often, and he tried to communicate, but fell into exhaustion easily. Other than broth, he wanted nothing. Trying to sit him up made him wince in pain, although his face contorted unevenly. He clutched his chest and squeezed his eyes closed, and attempts to move him ceased.

Hector was now a Prince Regent of sorts. He did not sit in his father’s chair, but it was he who convened the council, he who listened to their opinions about the Smyrneans, and he who was informed, two days later, that the Greeks were moving their ships toward Troy.

“Shut the gates.” Hector ordered, with no further ado. “Light the signals, summon the citizens with outlying farms to return.”

Achilles watched all of this in silence. There would be no training now, and he had no wish to add to the burdens of his prince. Hector’s face was more sorrowful than ever before. He fell to walking the walls compulsively, watching the sea. Achilles would follow him quietly, sometimes gesturing to say, “You go this way, I’ll go that way,” and Hector would wordlessly agree. They would patrol and return. 

It became clear by the third day that Priam was most comfortable with Archeptolemus at his side. The old priest, whom Hector regarded as a charlatan, did at least comfort his father, with assurances that Apollo still watched and blessed them, that the torches on the temple were burning, that Troy was in the loving eye of the gods.

Early afternoon of the third day, the priest summoned the princes and said importantly, that their father wanted herbs for Apollo’s temple. Freshly picked, just a certain type. He showed them a yellow flower, and Hector nodded impatiently, turning to one of the servants with a low-voiced, “Get some of these.” 

But the servant looked perplexed. They didn’t grow in the garden, and in the few places they did within the city walls, the goats had eaten them down.

Hector was exasperated. “Just get yellow flowers, they don’t have to be the same.”

“They do!” The priest insisted, and behind him on the bed, his father’s eyes begged from the wreckage of his fallen face. 

Hector’s soul shrank from hurting him. “I don’t know where to find them.”

Paris was studying the flowers intently. “I do.”

They all turned to him with hope, and he took the flower in his hand and went to his father’s bedside. “I know where to find them, Father. Lots of them. I’ll be back in a few hours, and we’ll burn them at sunset tonight!” He promised.

Hector’s face went from hope to concern. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t worry. It will make him happy.” Paris assured him, pleased to have a mission. He left the room with Hector staring after him.

***

Achilles saw Paris leaving the stable, leading the white mare. “You’re going for a ride?”

Paris held up a yellow flower. “I have to get these for my father. For the temple.”

Achilles nodded, thinking that somewhere in the city, there must be a place… Paris wasn’t heading for the gate. He shrugged and turned away.

***

Paris led the mare to the door near the broken barrels at the back of the compound. He lit the torch and coaxed her in. She danced a bit, as horses aren’t generally fond of tunnels, but once he had her in, and the door closed, he simply walked quickly in front of her, and she followed the only light she could see. He knew the tunnel well, and for him, moving rapidly, it was less than an hour’s walk.

When they emerged on the other side, he led the mare through the bushes and then mounted her, galloping through the brush and scrub along the foothills. In no time he’d reached the field of yellow flowers and dismounted, smiling to himself. He’d bedded more than one milkmaid in this field, and put the flowers in their hair, and smiled down at them.

He opened his cloak and lay it down, and gathered the yellow flowers by the fistful. Once he had an impressive pile, he simply rolled them up in his cloak and placed it across the mare’s back. He was just mounting her to ride her back when he heard the voices. He turned to see several Greek soldiers gesturing toward him, waving their arms, calling out. Then they charged at him.

They were on foot, so he wasn’t particularly worried. Leaning over the white mare’s neck, he directed her back toward the end of the foothills where the cavern was hidden and galloped into the scrub. They could not catch up, and Paris entered the cavern, holding the mare’s reigns and vanishing into the tunnel with his flowers for the altar. 

It did not occur to him that horses leave a trail through the long grass. Nor did it occur to him that the white mare was once a Greek soldier’s mare, and that his surviving comrades might have recognized her. He took her, he’d told himself, because she was small and it was a tunnel. If the fact that Achilles had gifted her to Hector had anything to do with his choice, Paris did not address that mentally. He returned with his flowers, pleased with having avoided capture, but oblivious to the possibility that he’d just led a contingent of soldiers directly to the tunnel.

***

Evening came, deceptively quiet. Word had escaped into the city that Priam was seriously ill, and people were speculating that he was already dead and the royal family was not admitting it. They weren’t far wrong.

Paris and Hector were at his bedside, the bundle of flowers placed at the foot of the bed. He’d fallen into a heavy sleep, and while Archeptolemus was pressuring the princes to ride out to the temple and burn the offering for their father while he lived, Hector flatly refused to let Paris do it, or to do it himself. Their father couldn’t see it, wouldn’t know it, and might not even believe it if he woke and they assured him it had been done. 

Paris agreed, wanting his father to see the flowers first. He’d gotten them at great personal risk, and he wanted his father to open his eyes one more time and see them in a great mound at his feet, and know that Paris had done it. It would comfort him, Paris argued, to see the flowers first.

Hector watched his father in sadness. He doubted the king would open his eyes again.

Achilles was up on the wall, having absorbed Hector’s habit of pacing and watching. He felt it soothed his prince to know that he was up there even when Hector himself was not. He stared out at the darkening beach. It was empty. It was completely empty. Why did it look so oddly empty?

Then it struck him. The fishermen were gone, they were not beaching their boats for the night in their usual spot. If they had decamped, it meant the Greeks were near. Achilles looked down at the closed gates. Agamemnon had 15,000 men remaining. Now that Hector was making the decisions, however, there’d be no nonsensical dramatic stands or unnecessary attacks. His prince was wiser than his father, the warrior thought with satisfaction. 

When night fell, Achilles went down to the guest quarters, bundled up his cot, and dragged it through the hall, out the courtyard, and back up the stairs to the nearest watch post. He encountered Hector on the way up and merely pointed to where he was going. Hector gave him a grateful nod, and Achilles dined on that look all the way up the stairs.

The night wore on. The king slept like death, not moving, barely breathing, until finally, in the darkest hours before dawn, his eyes slowly opened.

Paris was asleep at the foot of his father’s bed, near the wilting yellow flowers. Hector was stretched out on the cushioned bench nearby. Archeptolemus snored by the window in a great chair. A few candles and torches flickered, and in that light, Priam rolled his head on his pillow, looking around.

“Heh-tah” He managed, and all three men came awake with a start. Hector rolled off the cushions, dazed for a moment, and then saw his father looking at him. He went to him quickly, and brought a chalice to his lips. The old king managed a sip and then his head sank back, and his eyes turned up to his son.

“One more … for me…” he said, and Hector thought he meant more water, but he turned his face away. “No. Must…sac…fice… pah… loh.”

It was the clearest he’d spoken in days, and his sons and the priest all stared attentively at his face, trying to understand. His eyes were startlingly clear.

“There—“ he lifted the one hand he could move, seeming to gesture to the flowers wilted at the foot of the bed.

Paris turned and gathered them up in his arms. “These? I got them for you. We’ll burn them at the temple tonight!” He promised, young face eager.

“To night too late,” Priam managed, and the anxiety on his face was clear. “Now. Now? Go now?” He was pleading.

“I’ll go now,” Paris said, leaping up, but Hector clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You are not leaving this city.”

The king stared up at him beseechingly. Of course, Hector could not but revert to form, ever the obedient son. “I will go. I will go and burn them. Paris will watch from the wall and tell you when he sees the smoke.”

Priam was not satisfied. “Carry me up. Carry me up.” He insisted.

Hector turned grimly to Paris. “Get some of the servants to help you, and take him up to the wall. I’ll go to the temple. But after this, we seal up and we open for nothing, do you understand?” His anxious eyes bored into his brother, and Paris nodded. 

“Yes. I agree.”

Hector nodded and scooped the yellow flowers up, cloak and all, and went to his quarters. There could be spies outside the gates, there could be any number of things. He put on his armor quickly, shushing his wife as she rolled over in bed and inquired.

“I have to burn the flowers at the temple for my father.”

Andromache shook her head at such a request at such an hour, but he told her gently, “I think it’s his last request. I can’t say no. It’s not even dawn and I’ll be back before sunrise.”

Achilles was awakened by the rustle and fuss of the servants, the priest, and Paris carrying the fragile old king up the stairs, swathed in blankets, to the wall. He stood and looked around groggily. It wasn’t even dawn, although the sky in the east had the barest gray about the edge. 

“What are you doing?” he said huskily, watching the proceedings. “Where is Hector?”

“He’s going to the temple to make a last sacrifice for father.”

Without another word, Achilles bounded down the stairs in the closest thing to panic he’d ever felt. Surely Hector would not be so insane as to leave the city at this hour, Greek ships on their way, to do such a nonsensical thing. But yes. He met up with Hector coming through the hall in full armor.

“I’ll go with you,” was all Achilles said, speeding past him to his own quarters and snatching up his armor, his weapons, his bag with his dagger and rope, wineskin, anything that might come in handy if they were attacked, or had to hide in the temple. He sprinted back and joined his prince, and the two went to the stables. 

“I’ll drive,” Achilles said shortly. His own chariot was lighter, smaller, easily pulled. He made it ready in no time, having decided that if Hector was truly determined to please his father one last time, it was best done before dawn.

Even as they left the city, the door in the back of the compound by the broken barrels was quietly forced open, and men with weapons were silently streaming in. A force of forty was considered enough to get to the gate, and they had no intention of attacking the palace until the gate was opened, thus, they made their way through the gardens quietly, alerting no one.


	30. History Catches up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, fate is fate.

Achilles and Hector raced in the chariot across the sand to the temple, barely able to see in the scant light of the stars. There was no moon, but the white sand stood in contrast to the sea, and the phosphorus glowed on the waves as they rolled in. They reached the temple and lit their way in with a torch.

“Only light the ones in back, that can be seen from the wall,” Achilles advised. No need to light the ones in the front that Greeks out at sea might be in the position to notice.

Hector nodded, glad for a companion who was succinct and businesslike in this hour. He went to light the torches, and Achilles lit the candles to see by. He then threw the flowers on the altar with all the sacred respect of a laundrywoman emptying a barrel of dirty water into an alley. He lit them without ceremony and, when assured they were smoking nicely, he went out the front to scout for danger. In the graying dawn, he saw the fishing boats returning, and for a moment, was relieved. They must have seen no danger, to be returning like this.

Then he stilled, staring at the boats. They seemed oddly full. To his left, he became aware that the seagulls were circling the rocks with peculiar intensity. He walked to the edge of the steps and strained his eyes. Dead bodies. There were dead bodies on the beach. They were the bodies of the fishermen. He sprinted back to watch the small boats pull silently up on the beach, and saw the soldiers streaming out of them, heading for Troy.

Achilles darted back inside to look for Hector. He was not in the temple. The warrior leapt up to the side opening he’d stepped out before, weeks ago, a moon ago, only a moon ago? There was Hector, staring transfixed at the city. Achilles looked with him. It looked like part of the city was aglow.

Hector pushed past him and ran through the temple, and Achilles followed him, not wanting him to go running into the battalion of warriors coming up the beach. He caught up with the prince and dragged him back with both arms, whispering, “Wait, wait!” They watched as waves of men debarked, and then the boats pulled away, clearly heading back to hidden ships to load the next battalion. 

Achilles shook his head in despair. Agamemnon was not an idiot. This was a clever attack. He turned back to see the fires burning higher, and then the sight that he knew Hector had dreaded: the gates of Troy groaning open, as Greek fighters streamed in. He could hear the screams of terrified Trojans across the beach. There was nothing they could do, and in that moment Achilles knew that Troy was lost.

He turned to herd Hector back into the temple and hide him, for the imperative voice inside him said more loudly than ever: Hector must not die, Hector must not die. Hector, however, was gone. Achilles let out a shout of despair. He should have tied the Trojan down the minute he saw the dead fishermen. He bounded down the steps to find his prince, but the beach was a swarm of men charging up the sand, and he couldn’t pick out Hector among them. He grabbed the rope from his bag and mounted the chariot, snapping the reins on his horse to send it lunging with surprise toward the incoming tide of men. 

The entire beach seemed to be moving now, and Achilles hunted desperately in the pre-dawn light, trying to find the one warrior that mattered. He ran the chariot alongside the charging soldiers, many of whom cheered when they saw him, thinking he had come out of nowhere to aid in the invasion. But his gaze scanned intently, looking for only one man. He rode all the way to the gate and could not find Hector. Agitated almost beyond self-recognition, he turned his horse and headed back to the water, staring into the oncoming faces. When he reached the beach again, he was wild with anxiety, and on his second charge up the beach, was looking for any man lying in the sand… could Hector have fallen? But no, there were no bodies in the sand because there was no resistance to the charge. Except in one area.

Now he identified Hector halfway to the gate, engaging every attacking foe he could reach, cutting them down with wild and vicious efficiency. He had to know it was hopeless, but Achilles knew him now. He’d try to cut down every Greek on the beach, knowing it was impossible, but he would fight till he died, along with his beloved city. Achilles raced toward him. He had engaged several men, but most of them simply ran around him, seeing no point in fighting on the beach when the famous gate was open.

Just as Achilles reached Hector, something drew his eye toward the city. Up on the wall, a woman in royal blue with long dark hair was struggling against two men. She was too far away for Achilles to see her face, but he knew the royal blue, he knew the slender form. She holding a large bundle of white. Even as he watched, the bundle was torn from her hands and flung over the wall, to fall to its base and lie still. Achilles’ eyes widened and he pulled up the reins reflexively. He felt certain he’d just seen Hector’s son die. His eyes went from the bundle to the struggling woman, who was soon dragged from sight.

It was one thing to know that the lower caste of soldiers would do such things. Perhaps even his Myrmidons had done it. They’d certainly killed the priests and delivered Briseis, bruised and bloody, to his bed. But it was stunning to see Hector’s child plummet from the wall. For a moment, Achilles drifted in the sort of shock he often saw in the people he was attacking. He’d despised them for weakness, then. Now he was experiencing it.

Finally, he turned to see Hector, still fighting madly. He hadn’t seen. Achilles was awash in relief. He hadn’t seen. He didn’t know. No longer numb, the warrior focused on his one mission. Hector must not die. He ran to him, but Hector simply lashed out at him, clearly not differentiating between anyone moving in his direction. Achilles dodged the blow.

“Hector!” He roared, trying to break through the blood fog in the prince’s mind, but he was fighting like a madman, and Achilles had to fight at his side for a moment so that he wasn’t cut down from behind right in front of him. Finally, in desperation, Achilles brought his shield around and smashed him on the head, stunning him. Then he looped the rope around Hector’s waist, and dragged him staggering to the chariot, wrapping the ends of the rope around his own arm. 

He meant to drag his prince onto the chariot, but a hale of arrows descended around them and Achilles knew he had to move. He grabbed the reins in one hand and snapped them with all of his strength, and the horse took off like a lightning bolt. Achilles nearly fell off, but he managed to hold the edge of the chariot with one hand and the rope with the other, dragging Hector behind him. Once he was beyond the range of the arrows, he pulled up the horse and hauled the prince’s limp body onto the chariot. Then he continued onto the beach, returning to the temple. Dawn was just streaking red fingers across the rim of the world.

Looking around, he saw the fishing boats were abandoned now. The Greeks were bringing their ships out of hiding and approaching the beach so the bulk of the warriors could attack. Achilles stripped Hector of the heavy armor and dropped his own beside it. Then he lifted his prince into one of the fishing boats. He ran up the steps to the temple and retrieved his knife, and wineskin, and Paris’s brown cloak, and then returned to the boat. 

Achilles pushed the small fishing boat into the water and climbed in, shrouding his bright hair with the cloak, and picked up the oars. With Hector crumpled, wounded and limp at his feet, the warrior pulled the boat away from the shore, moving stealthily away from the rocks, and although some of the approaching ships were close enough to see him, they didn’t know a simple fishing boat was sliding away into the Aegean carrying the most legendary warrior of Greece, and the last Prince of Troy.

When he’d cleared the path of the Greek ships, and rowed beyond the breakers, Achilles stopped to watch as the fires burned from behind the wall of Troy. The sky was glowing above it. The hellish roar of the flames came to him across the water, like the call of some enraged, many-headed monster. The warrior looked down at his prince. He would not be grateful, Achilles knew. He would want to die with his city and his family. 

The warrior sighed and started rowing again, using all of his power, making his way south along the coast. There was an excellent chance his Myrmidons had put into a port on the way home, found it to their liking, and lingered. Most of them were not married, and had a way of finding women who slowed their return journeys to a crawl.


	31. Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles still has one mission: Hector must not die.

Hector’s perceptions during the journey varied wildly. For the first several days, he drifted in and out of fugue, but when he was conscious, he was certain that Achilles had betrayed him. The Greek was kidnapping him, and Troy was burning. The Greek had somehow alerted his compatriots to the tunnel. It was as Hector had suspected, all a plot, from the beginning to the end of it. The few times he was lucid enough to understand he was in a boat, the only thing that kept him from jumping was his fear of water. 

Sometimes even that didn’t matter; he would drown, and he didn’t care. Achilles would have to put down the oars and struggle with him, making the entire boat rock violently. That made Hector vomit over the edge of it twice, and after that, he learned not to struggle. His head hurt most of the time, and he was miserable with thirst. The wineskin contained only enough to wet their mouths from time to time, and when it was gone, Achilles knew he had to find more supplies. He could last for days with no food and little water, but Hector was suffering. 

They put in at a small village, so far down the coast they were simply two strangers in dirty tunics and rough cloaks—one of which Achilles found in the bottom of the boat. He gave Paris’ softer cloak to Hector and took the rough-hewn fisherman’s for his own. Achilles traded the gold clasps on his tunic for supplies, and nursed Hector’s head wound with cold compresses, and ale. Unsurprisingly, the prince remained confused for some time. 

By the time Achilles found his Myrmidons carousing in a city far south, they had traveled faster than the news of the burning of Troy. He bundled Hector onto the ship and when he struggled, dosed him with a drink one of his men, a brute named Marisius, used to “make women compliant.” His goal was simple: return to the island his mother had come from. It was a small island, one of many, in the Aegean. One had to know the configuration of the islands around it to even find it, but with Achilles aboard, the winds and seas seemed suddenly cooperative, and the journey was only one of weeks.

At this point, Hector believed he and Achilles were dead, and were on the river Styx, and Eudorus—with his bright, unworldly eyes—was the boatman. He wandered about the boat in vague confusion, often stumbling, for his balance seemed affected either by the blow to the head Achilles had dealt him to remove him from the beach, or his innate unseaworthiness. He grew dirty and thin, as they all did onboard. His beard was full and his hair tangled, and he stared off in the direction of the rising sun every morning, certain that the red glow of dawn was the burning of Troy.

Often he searched the boat for his father or brother, for they must be dead too, and therefore with the boatman. Achilles, who had once assured Hector that lying was beneath him, discovered it wasn’t.

“My wife and child are dead,” the prince would mumble, slumped between the benches where the Myrmidons rowed.'

“No, no, they got away. They got away through the tunnel,” Achilles assured him earnestly. 

“How do you know?”

Achilles varied his answers, claiming spies had told him, or he saw himself, trying to see which one worked best.

“My brother—“

“He got away! He did, through the tunnel!” Achilles would put a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. He was fairly certain no such thing happened, but he said it anyway.

“My father—“ 

Achilles hesitated. No point in stretching it to the point of absolute nonsense. “He died before they arrived. He died watching the smoke rise from the temple. He died happy. He was proud of you.”

Hector gazed up at him through his tangled curls, dark circles under his anguished eyes.

“We have to go back!”

“We can’t go back.” On that Achilles was firm. 

Hector would start struggling at that point. “We have to go back!”

“We can’t go back _yet,_” Achilles would improvise. “We need soldiers and supplies. We’ll go back when we get supplies.”

“Bring her around! Bring her around!” Hector would lurch to his feet, waving his arms at the rowing Myrmidons, who looked at Achilles, aggravated. Achilles looked at Eudorus. Eudorus turned to Marisius, “Barkeep, how about a drink for the prince?” And they dosed him back to sleep. It was not the best treatment for a head injury, but they were warriors, and they did what seemed effective at the time.

To Achilles, the water was bluer when he reached the island of his childhood. It was very small, lush with greenery, and looked uninhabited from most sides. One could walk the beach nearly all the way around it in an afternoon, but one side jutted high out of the water, and there was no beach, only jagged rocks. The Myrmidons ran the boat up on the shore and stared in puzzlement.

“I never knew this was here,” Eudorus breathed, his dazzling eyes wide.

Hector skirted him to look over the edge of the boat, wanting to disembark without touching the water. “Don’t pay him yet,” he whispered to Achilles, watching Eudorus closely. Those eyes made Hector very uneasy.

Achilles tossed his bundle of supplies well into the sand and prepared to jump out. Eudorus put a hand out respectfully to slow him, “My Lord, are you certain you can survive here? There’s no one! It looks wild!”

Achilles smiled. “I grew up here. There’s more to this island than can be seen. But we keep it a closely guarded secret, so let us off, and then shove away quickly. We may not see one another again in this life,” he added, and gave his lieutenant a quick embrace. Then he leapt from the edge and landed with a splash in ankle deep water, and waded up to the sand. He turned to Hector, who stood looking down at the water’s edge.

“You touched the water,” the prince said worriedly.

“Come, no harm will come to you,” Achilles assured him.

“I’ll forget who I was.” Hector said, his brows contracted over his exhausted, sunken dark eyes.

Achilles looked at him, hoping this confusion was temporary. “What if you did?” He asked suddenly. “What if you forgot everything that brings you pain?”

Hector ruminated, looking into the water. “Who would I be without it?”

Achilles held his hand up. “Let’s find out. Come.”


	32. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Achilles mother really is a goddess. Well, a minor one.

The woman was still slender, but the thick streak of grey in her long hair told of a lifetime already spent. There was a curious simplicity about her demeanor. She looked directly into one’s eyes, and her face was usually without expression. She lived in the ruins of a marble palace hidden in the center of the island, with two handmaids who seemed even more simple than she, to the point of making one think they had been dumb animals who had been transformed into humans for servitude. She treated them well, however.

She kept a bowl of tiny seashells on a block of marble. It stood in the center of the cracked and ruined colonnade, with vines that wove around the columns. When the fisherman made his circuit, peddling other men’s wares as go-between every few months or so, she took a single shell and held it in her fingers. After a moment, the gleam of gold was visible. Today, she held one out to her son.

“Buy cloth, and some more of the seeds for the garden. Honey. Yeast. No more of the poppy; he’ll never recover his wits if you keep giving him that drink every time he gets agitated.”

“Sometimes he thinks Troy is still burning.”

His mother was unperturbed. “Yes, well,” she gave him a look from blue eyes very like his own, cool and penetrating. “You don’t give him the lethe drops I gave you regularly enough. You’re careless with it, and he won’t be steady if you aren’t.”

“They make him nervous. He wants to patrol and look for ships. He thinks we’re guarding Troy from some distant island, and we have to ride from one end to the other, and then he wants to check the wood for the signal fire again…”

“You’re the one who brought the horses onto the island.”

“I thought they’d make him happy,” Achilles mumbled, scowling down at the small golden seashell in his hand.

Thetis smiled. “They did,” she reminded him. “He kissed you--”

Achilles’ scowl faded and his lips turned up slightly, remembering.

“--finally,” she added drily. “But he needs a purpose, and oiling your back and wrestling with you at night is not enough.”

Achilles looked away impatiently, and then back at her.

“He doesn’t like how it tastes,” he said.

“That’s what the honey is for. Now listen to me. Give him the lethe drops,” she advised. “Train him. Ride point with him. Let him organize the seed stores; I know my mess drives him mad. Help him finish the stables, because the rains will come and you are not bringing those horses into what’s left of the citadel, I absolutely forbid it.”

She watched her son’s full lower lip stick out a bit. Mighty warrior he might be, but to her he was still the stubborn boy who hated taking advice from his mother.

“How long will he be this way?” He asked abruptly.

She looked at him as if wondering how any son of hers could be so dim. “He will always be this way.”

Achilles looked at her as if he mistrusted her abilities.

“The paths in his mind are set,” she told him gently. “As he gets older, they will set more firmly, just as yours did. You were right to bring him here, if you want to keep him. He won’t age here, just as you never did while you lived here. And I. But we are what we are, and in time we become even more what we are.”

“I don’t want him to simply spend his days thinking he’s guarding Troy from attack. I wanted him to have a new life.”

She smiled at his naivete, “A carefree life of frolicking in the ocean with you, and playing with swords? He’s not a child. He was born a prince, and raised to be a king. His mind is built around that path, just as yours was built around the warrior path. And the older you got, the more firmly you held to it.”

“He’ll become simple,” Achilles predicted, staring off unhappily.

“Not simple-minded… his mind won’t wither if it doesn’t age. And as long as he stays on this island, my gifts can protect him, as they did you. But we all become simple when our lives extend beyond what is normal. It happened to me, it happened to you—“

Achilles looked at her, affronted. “Me?!”

She gazed back in wonderment. “How old do you think you are? Do you remember how long we were here the first time I left your father?”

“No.”

She nodded. “Hm. Well, I guess we never talked about it.” She nodded at the gold seashell. “Go, or the fisherman will give up and we won’t get another chance for months. Remember cloth! Blue! For Hector. If you love him—and you do—don’t let him go about in rags all day. He’s a good man.”

The warrior looked down at the shell in his hand. “Am I a good man?” He asked suddenly.

Thetis’ eyes warmed slightly, and she touched his cheek lovingly. “You’re my son,” she told him, and slipped away before he could realize she hadn’t said _yes._ But she watched him turn away, take a few steps, and pause. Odd, she mused. Before Hector, he never asked such questions. Hm.

Achilles sighed and left to make his way down the lengthy bridge of steps that descended the mountainside to the beach where the fisherman waited, the merchandise he ferried bundled in the bottom of the boat.

When he saw Achilles, the old salt frowned. Who was this young man with yellow hair? He wanted to see the pretty handmaids who usually came smiling down to him. Handmaidens of the sea nymph, he called them, and he enjoyed telling other fisherman about the secret island that only he could find, inhabited by a goddess who had lived a hundred years. But who was this fellow?

The young man approached him with a familiar golden shell. “Blue cloth, honey, yeast… seeds.” He said abruptly.

“Good day to you too, young Lord!” Said the fisherman brusquely. “Too young for manners, I suppose!”

Achilles gave him a look that had made warriors shrink away, but the old fisherman had no idea he was facing the most deadly fighter in the history of the Greeks. He saw fit young blond fellow in a faded tunic, when what he wanted to see was two pretty handmaids. “Too busy to look at my other wares, I suppose!”

Achilles gave the back of his head an impatient scratch and waited.

“Here’s blue cloth… did your mistress say how much?”

“She’s my mother.” He informed the old salt curtly.

“Oh, son of a goddess, well, that’s why your nose is up so high. Well here, take this piece. Big enough for… oh several things I suppose. Now, what seeds? Did your mistress-mother say is it the usual? The usual I suppose. Here you go then, and honey, yeast… what about mustard? Good with bread. Olives? Oh you grow your own I suppose. Well now, what about some trinkets, hm? I have necklaces, look, pearl, no? Leather works? Bridles, I have two…. Yes? Yes, then, yes. Here, here’s a carving, it’s a Trojan Horse. Very popular nowadays.”

Achilles stared at the small, carved wooden horse in his hand. It looked like the one Hector’s son had—his mind shied away from the memory of the boy. “Why do you call it a Trojan Horse,” he asked uneasily.

“Well, after the story!”

Achilles just looked at him, and then turned and glanced around behind and up the mountainside to see that Hector was nowhere near. He turned back. “Story?”

The fisherman stared at him in wonder. “You never heard of the Trojan Horse? Never heard of the city of Troy, and the kings Agamemnon and Odysseus, and the warriors Achilles and Ajax, and the Princes of Troy, and the Trojan Horse?”

Achilles handed over the golden shell and folded the blue cloth slowly around the rest of the goods.

“Tell me about it.”

When the story was done, Achilles stared at him. “In the heel?? Where did you hear such nonsense, that isn’t true at all!”

The old fisherman brandished a finger at him. “They found his body in his very own armor with an arrow in the heel, so I guess I know what I’m talking about.”

Achilles remembered: his armor left on the beach. Some fool must have taken it and—

“But what’s this about a Trojan Horse?”

“They said a white horse led them to the secret tunnel!”

“And Prince Hector?”

“Dead! They saw Achilles drag his body away with his chariot!”

“And… the rest of the royal family?” He was almost afraid to ask.

“Dead. Speared through, the baby threw from the city wall. Whole family wiped out. Well, not the women. Those were some fine-looking women, you know. They got divvied up. Hector’s wife is slave to one of Agamemnon’s sons now.”

Achilles stood for a long time, bundle in his hands. He added: _Don’t ever, ever let Hector talk to the fisherman_ to his mental list of ways he would keep the sad, ugly truth from Hector. Perhaps his mother was right about the lethe.

“Anything else, then?” The fisherman asked.

Somberly, Achilles shook his head. Suddenly, they both heard the distant hooves of a galloping horse, and turned to look up on the bluff. A beautiful bay horse—Achilles had looked long for a Darius for Hector— was streaking along the edge, ridden by a tall, dark haired man with strong shoulders and a dignified mien. He pulled the horse up near the edge and stroked the steed’s neck as it danced to a halt. Rider and man were a graceful outline against the blue sky. The breeze ruffled the horse’s mane and his rider’s dark curls as he turned and looked off into the distance, his eyes scanning the horizon, looking for white sails.

“Who’s that?” Asked the fisherman.

Achilles gazed up at the bluffs and said quietly. “He’s my king.”


End file.
